


Wide Awake

by J_Baillier



Series: You Go To My Head [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Brain Surgery, Communication, Doctor!John, Doctor!Sherlock, Don't copy to another site, Family Drama, Family Issues, Glasses, John being exasperatedly endeared by Sherlock, M/M, Married Idiots In Love, Medical Procedures, Medical Realism, Medical husbands being BAMFy together, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tense OR scenes, anaesthesiology, neurosurgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-01-24 22:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: The stakes are high for our doctors as they allow a BBC film crew into the operating room to document a brain tumour operation done with their celebrity patient awake during surgery.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: You Go To My Head [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/392395
Comments: 240
Kudos: 370





	1. The Star And The Stage Whisperer

**Author's Note:**

> [[an index and guide to all my Sherlock stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011148)]
> 
> Have you missed these medical dork husbands? I certainly have, and I hope this explosively tense medical adventure will hit the spot with friends old and new of Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson.

"You should have worn your new navy blue jumper," Sherlock leans closer to comment quietly from where he's standing next to John. They're watching the camera man readjust the positioning of one of the lights.

John chuckles. "I'm touched that you care what I'll look like on TV."

"Of _course _I care. What you look like is also a reflection of me."

"Because the anaesthetist is just the surgeon's little helper?" John quips.

Dismay takes over Sherlock's features. "No, that's not what I–– _Of __course not_!"

"I'm just yanking your chain, love," John whispers loudly with a grin.

A glance around confirms that no one is eavesdropping on their conversation. They've just emerged from the make-up room where the staff had dusted powder on them to take the shine off a pair of faces not used to the heat of the bright studio lights. Sherlock had protested the whole thing, insisting he found just looking at the powder keg made him feel like someone was dragging nails down a blackboard in his vicinity, but John had managed to talk him out of a strop by insisting these were professionals who knew what they were doing.

Sherlock readjusts his cuffs so that they show the perfect amount of fabric beyond his jacket. He is wearing a black suit with a purple shirt, all parts of the ensemble fitting like a glove.

But… there's something missing. Something John _knows_ his husband has purchased not two hours ago. "Well, where are they?" he asks, raises his brows.

Sherlock looks confused. "Where what are?"

"Well, your––" John mimes putting them on.

Sherlock's face falls, mouth tightening into an angry line. "Don't be daft! I'm _not _wearing them for this!"

"Well, I thought you'd be wearing them most of the time, now."

"I should have gone to a different optician. There's no reason why one couldn't start directly with contacts."

"You'd need a normal pair as a spare, anyway, and you did the research: they don't make photochromic contacts yet, and you'll probably prefer them to regular glasses. Plus you'd have to take the contacts off for spinal surgery, anyway, since you've got the prescription loupes now." The large surgical microscopes used for intracranial surgery can be adjusted to fit Sherlock's refraction so there's no need for any special parts for them.

Sherlock sticks his hand in his jacket pocket and shifts his fingers around as though grasping onto something. "I'll look strange with glasses."

"You'll look perfectly fine. Maybe even ador––"

The murderous glare he receives makes John quickly swallow the rest of the word.

During the first months after they had returned home from Malawi, Sherlock had begun complaining of nearly daily headaches intense enough to require popping paracetamol tablets in the evenings, squinting at the television, and resting books on his chest much closer than he ever had before. It seems that, since he hadn't done anything requiring microscopes during their sabbatical, returning to London and Sherlock's usual work, provided such a stark contrast to the way he'd been using his eyes in Africa that his slight far-sightedness began to bother him. His eyes got tired sooner than before, and his vision got blurry if he read for a long time. Using the surgical microscope lessened the symptoms since he could adjust it to perfectly compensate for the issue; it was all of the other things he did daily that strained his eyes, struggling to accommodate. But, even after it became rather obvious to John what was going on, Sherlock was — in his usual fashion — hoping for the issue to disappear on its own if he ignored it.

One evening, when he'd dragged an armchair close to the TV so that he could effortlessly read the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen as they watched the news, John could no longer delay discussing the issue. He asked Sherlock if he couldn't read the text from the sofa anymore.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's too small for anyone to read from that distance."

"I can read it perfectly fine from here. I've noticed you need to look at things much closer than you used. When's the last time you had your sight checked?"

"I can't recall. There's nothing wrong with it."

"No, probably nothing _wrong_, as in there's no illness going on, but you just might need specs, love."

Sherlock had looked like John was suggesting he needed to get his tongue pierced. John wasn't surprised — his partner is always very particular about the way he looks, and anything that alters his physical appearance could take a long adjustment period. If that something involved an item touching his face constantly, there might be a formidable struggle ahead.

"I'm not _old_, John," Sherlock had complained indignantly the night John had called him out.

John had snorted. "Nope, but that's got nothing to do with this. You might have been slightly far-sighted all your life, but now it's gotten ever so slightly worse in a way that you're starting to notice. Probably best fix it before your eyes start to get really tired at work."

Sherlock went quiet, blinking as he often did when he was thinking hard. "There's LASIK," he pointed out, referring to laser-assisted sight correction surgery.

"Yeah, but you'd still probably want glasses before that happened. And wasn't there that big study that showed that like thirty percent of operated-on patients still used glasses in some situations?"

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening. "I'm sure I could find someone to do LASIK next week."

"There's also contacts, though you'd have to find out if they're a good fit for your work."

"Yes, yes, of course. Clearly, they must be the superior option to visible glasses. No need to advertise one's deficiencies."

"Sherlock… It's not like that. Lots of people have glasses. Probably half our colleagues. Greg's got a pair for reading he keeps in his office."

"I've never had glasses."

It was a typical dismissal from Sherlock, who often clung to irrelevant details and illogical arguments when faced with something he didn't quite know how to deal with.

"Go see an ophthalmologist. They'll give you the lowdown on your options," John suggested.

Sherlock didn't reply and sulked for the rest of the evening as though his eyesight issue was completely John's fault.

Now, John knows that Sherlock had eventually caved in, and that he's been to an optician to pick his prescription glasses up today. He wonders what it'll take to get his partner to actually put them on. "Can I see them?"

"_No,_" Sherlock announces coldly. He reaches up to touch the top of his curls; John knows he'd not argued with the hairstylist using a bit of hairspray even though the sensation must be strange. There's a row of products in their bathroom which Sherlock uses to keep his curls just the way he likes and John loves, and the latter hasn't really taken the time to learn the purpose of each one.

"You look lovely," John reassures him.

"I'm not aiming for 'lovely', I'm aiming for _professional_."

"That, too."

"Doctor Holmes? We're ready for you," The director of the documentary calls out, pointing at the chair in the middle of the set which is the target of a set of glaring lights and two cameras.

"Right, yes–– that should be _Mister _Holmes, actually, although using that term is an archaic practice linked to the fact that surgeons were not as revered once as other medical professionals were, so perhaps… _doctor…_after all?" Sherlock rattles on as he makes his way to the chair, wipes off invisible dust from it and takes a seat, his eyes unconsciously seeking John’s as though needing an anchor.

John plasters on a grin and points at it, miming that he wants Sherlock to imitate it. He'd told Sherlock to just be his charming self, to smile a little, to which his partner had replied that he doesn't want to look like a dentist in some inane toothpaste commercial.

"We can decide later on what to put in the aston — that means the superimposed text of your name and title, that is," the director explains. "The interviewer’s questions will be filmed and recorded later, so what we ask now is to get your parts in the can. Shall we start?"

"Yes," Sherlock says in a clipped tone. He frowns at an overhead microphone boom that is moved closer. “Can you keep that out of my eye-line, please? It’s distracting.”

Obediently, the sound engineer pulls it up and behind Sherlock, out of camera range.

Sherlock is first asked to introduce himself, which requires several takes: it takes a while for the director to convince him that he doesn't need to recite all the abbreviations associated with his training and academic credentials.

"Surely the viewers will require an explanation as to why I am qualified to handle such a patient case?" Sherlock points out.

"Trust me, it's enough that you're a neurosurgeon. Most people won't be familiar with the different ranks and training systems and all that," the director assures him.

"They _should _be," Sherlock grouses. "Only an idiot would let someone operate on their brain without researching that person's credentials."

John glances at the cameraman, hoping that the comment didn't go on tape.

"Could you explain to us what an ‘awake craniotomy’ means?" the director requests after the cameras start rolling again.

Sherlock clears his throat, squares his shoulders. He is a confident public speaker but being aware that this program might get millions of potential viewers would be enough to erode anyone's confidence. Prior episodes in the NHS documentary series have gathered huge audiences and won prizes; even healthcare professionals have lauded their knowledgeable content and respectful attitude towards the NHS and its skilled staff. As much as Sherlock has tried to project an air of his usual professional aloofness, John knows his tells: right now, Sherlock is trying hard not to fidget under the intense scrutiny.

"A craniotomy refers to surgery inside the skull; the term itself could be translated as making an opening in the cranial bones. This is done to remove tumours, to close off malformed blood vessels from cerebral circulation, to insert drains for cerebrospinal fluid, and to install nerve stimulators. Awake should be self-explanatory. The technique was first used in epilepsy surgery. Subsequently, it has been employed in tumour surgery, deep brain stimulation instalment, and for the surgical treatment of blood vessel malformations."

The questions that would be asked by the interviewer had been delivered beforehand by email. John had helped Sherlock formulate answers which should be understandable enough to the general public.

"Why would any patient agree to remain awake while they are having brain surgery?" Is the next question directed at Sherlock.

"It lowers the risk of a complication that would rob them of an ability they consider instrumental in their lives. Some brain tumours grow in areas where centres of speech, limb movement and other important functions are housed. With the patient awake, those centres can be engaged during the operation to make sure the surgeon is not causing too much harm to an ability the patient considers outstandingly important."

"Such as singing?"

"Such as singing when one is a professional tenor, yes."

"Which parts of the brain are involved in that?"

This question hadn't been included in the email and John grits his teeth; it is difficult for Sherlock to gauge the average person's knowledge level of medicine, and some of his initial suggestions of suitable answers had gone over even John's head. Sherlock has agreed to go through the operation footage with the production team afterwards to explain each phase so that the narrator can then give concise explanations in layman terms on the proceedings. John hopes whoever is tasked with formulating that narrative doesn't end up quitting the BBC as a result of having to deal with one of Britain's finest and absolutely the moodiest neurosurgeon.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock launches into a mouthful of jargon. "Singing is an outstandingly complex neural task that involves many cortical and subcortical centres and pathways. It also requires brain structures dealing with understanding of music, hearing it, speaking and memory. All the details of these processes in the brain are not yet fully understood, but we know that right-side fronto-temporal brain structures are deeply involved. Singers also need very precise control of the so-called phonatory muscles — those involved in moving the vocal chords and mouth structures involved in formulating different sounds — and the reticular formation of the pons and medulla seems to be instrumental in that. Of particular interest in this case is the ventral portion of the primary somatosensory cortex, which lies next to the so-called M1 phonatory area which controls––"

While he drones on, the director leans towards his assistant and John is close enough to hear his words: "We'll try to work out what the hell all of that means later. Maybe do a nice animation of it or something."

Soon, Sherlock notices that he's being ignored and snaps his mouth shut, frowning disapprovingly. "I wasn't finished."

"Could you rephrase that in a more general manner?" The director asks.

"You asked me to explain the neuroanatomy of singing. I don't know how to do that without mentioning specific functional loci in the cerebrum."

The director straightens his stack of papers. "Um––"

"You could just say that singing involves so many different brain centres that it's hard to protect them all during surgery. So, to be sure that you're not doing harm to any of them while trying to get the tumour out, you need the patient to sing during the operation?" John suggests.

Sherlock's gaze locks onto him. He doesn't look pleased with John's interference. "Shall I relinquish this seat to you, _Doctor Watson_?"

John slaps on a disarming smile. "Just a suggestion."

"Shall we try again?" The director asks cheerily. John has to applaud the man for being seemingly unfazed by his imposing interviewee. "Roll."

Sherlock fixes his line of sight on a wall just above the camera and lifts his chin a bit. "Singing is a neurologically complex thing to do, and in order to avoid harming any of the delicate pathways enabling Mister Waldegrave to do his job, I need him to do it while making my way through healthy brain tissue towards the tumour."

The director nods, and Sherlock receives a hastily enthusiastic thumbs-up from John as well. He's certain he catches a swiftly aborted eye roll.

"Could you explain why you need to operate on this patient?" The Director asks.

"Mister Waldegrave suffered a grand mal seizure, and what is most likely an oligodendroglioma has been discovered as the cause of that symptom."

"Is that a brain tumour? Could you explain what that is?"

"Oligodendrogliomas are the third most common type of gliomata, a common type of brain tumour in adults. The function of oligodendrocytes, which are a type of brain cells, is to produce a substance called myelin which helps signals to travel faster along nerves. Judging by the imaging results, the symptoms, the patient's age and certain other factors, this is the most likely type of Mister Waldegraves' tumour."

"Are oligodendrogliomas cancerous or benign?"

"They tend to be classified into either grade two or grade three; grade three is malignant and somewhat unlikely to be cured entirely; the average life expectancy is between three and four years after diagnosis. Grade two, which is considered a low-grade malignancy or a borderline entity carries a much more favourable prognosis; average life expectancy is twelve years after diagnosis, and many patients whose tumours can be fully removed are cured completely. In comparison with many other types of malignant or borderline malignant brain tumours in adults, patients with grade two oligodendrogliomas have a relatively high survival rate."

"What is Mister Waldegrave's prognosis?"

"Until a pathologist has graded the tumour from a sample taken during the surgery, I cannot say for certain. The tumour has distinct enough borders that I suspect it is grade two, and am willing to go in for a removal operation without doing a stereotactic biopsy first. Judging by the MRI results, if it turns out to be grade two, there is a good possibility of a complete cure. And, regardless of grade, I expect to be able to remove the entire tumour."

_Expect, _not _hope_. John grins. Sherlock's confidence is married to both skill and a bit of arrogance when it comes to surgical prowess.

"What kinds of symptoms can these tumours produce besides seizures?" The director asks next.

"Depending on the location, they may cause localised symptoms such as muscle weakness or loss of sensation in a part of the body, headaches if the tumour takes up so much space that the brain is compressed, vertigo, partial loss of sight, or hallucinations relating to smell. Mister Waldegrave's presentation of a sudden generalised seizure is quite common."

"Make a note to get the performance stage footage added here," the director tells an assistant, who grabs a pad and begins scribbling on it.

The patient — a thirty-seven-year-old star tenor called Carrington Waldegrave — had been on the covers of all the newspapers when he had suffered a seizure in the middle of "_Una furtiva lagrima_", an apparently legendary tenor aria in Donizetti's opera "_The Elixir of Love_" at the Metropolitan Opera two weeks prior. To make matters worse, the performance was live broadcast to cinemas in the UK, meaning that an even larger audience had been shocked by Waldegrave's sudden collapse.

Sherlock readjusts his suit jacket and clears his throat, after which the director returns to the matter at hand.

"Is the operation technically very difficult?" He asks.

Sherlock no longer looks slightly uncomfortable; discussing the technical aspects of neurosurgery is firmly within his social comfort zone. "No major blood vessels or brain structures involved in vital functions are close to the operative field, and the tumour has clear margins and no signs of excessive vasculature. There are always risks, but I would rate Mister Waldegrave's operation as being in a relatively low risk group in the larger context of intracranial tumour surgery."

"How does an awake approach change the experience for the surgeon?"

"It can lessen the worry of doing collateral damage to important brain structures when the functions of those structures can be constantly tested in a very authentic manner during the operation. However, if something goes wrong during an awake craniotomy, it is naturally very stressful for both the surgeon and the patient. Neurosurgeons are not as accustomed to communicating with our patients during surgery as, for instance, orthopaedists are, since a nerve block is rarely a feasible option for anaesthesia in our field."

“Is keeping a patient awake during brain surgery like this challenging for an anaesthetist?”

“This is a question that would be better answered by my colleague John Watson, but I will do my best."

John grins.

Sherlock gives him a glance, and the edge of his lip quirks up just a little bit.

"Keeping them awake is not the biggest challenge; keeping them calm and comfortable certainly is. The anaesthesia team has a great responsibility in ensuring patients don't panic or attempt to move even during awake operations where there are no particular challenges or complications. It is a challenging operating technique for the whole team but thankfully, I get to enjoy the services of some of the best-trained anaesthesia staff in the subspecialty. Questions regarding the finer details of the anaesthesia for awake craniotomies should be deferred to Doctor Watson.”

"Have the two of you worked together long?"

"Since I arrived at King's College."

"And why have you chosen to team up with Doctor Watson for this particular case? I assume you got to choose your team?"

"I––" Sherlock's eyes shift away from the camera to John; he looks as though he's pleading for help.

John gives a subtle shrug. He can't tell if this question is a veiled attempt to coax out an admission of favouritism, or just background information likely to be edited out of the final documentary. This question certainly hadn't been on the list sent to them in advance.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. John can tell the cogs are turning as determination begins rearranging his facial features.

Finally, Sherlock responds: "Due to his administrative duties, he and I do not often get to work together in the OR these days. He's one of our unit's senior consultants and for awake craniotomies in particular, I prefer to work with an anaesthetist who I know very well and with whom I have developed a good working relationship. This is not a case for a trainee. He–– _Doctor Watson _is an experienced neuroanaesthetist with good communication skills. Those are imperative for a good patient experience during an awake craniotomy."

Sherlock is omitting the fact that, due to the communication issues he has just mentioned, he is only supposed to do awake cases with John or if a second surgeon joins him. Sherlock had certainly made strides in improving his patient communication skills, but under duress in the OR it's best to have some cushioning forces present to reassure the patient if Sherlock gets a bit… too honest about how things are going or irritated about the patient speaking to him. The King's College Trust Picking Sherlock for a televised operation might thus seem counterintuitive, but he's undoubtedly one of the hospital's most skilled surgeons, and nearly all of his colleagues at King's College neurosurgical unit had refused to participate in the program. And, as Sherlock had put it, would the Trust _really _want to put Philip Anderson on BBC1?

If this case goes well, John is going to suggest to Lestrade that the conditions for Sherlock doing awake craniotomies be lifted. Sherlock will always be Sherlock but these days, he manages his patient interactions so much better than he used to.

John gives his husband a fond smile which is returned, albeit in a reserved manner.

The director consults his notes. "Thank you, Doctor Holmes. I think we got what we need for now."

Sherlock slips down from the bar stool and wastes no time in leaving the spotlight, but he does hover close by while John does his half of the interview.

"Doctor Watson; could you explain the role of the anaesthetist in awake craniotomies?" The director prompts.

"The preparations actually take less time than for a standard craniotomy since we don't use general anaesthesia. We do administer sedation to make the patient comfortable and to help them relax, but we must avoid giving so much of it that they will be too drowsy to understand what's going on and too lethargic to obey the surgeon's instructions. Sometimes we might put them under deeper sedation for the start of the surgery, but Mister Waldegrave has stated he sees no need for that. As for my and the anaesthesia nurse's role during the surgery: just as Mister Holmes explained, an awake craniotomy can be very stressful for the patient. After all, I think the thought of having one's brain operated on under any kind of anaesthesia or lack thereof would scare just about anyone. They need someone to keep them company, talk to them, reassure them and keep an eye on whatever it is that the surgeon needs them to do to monitor brain function. We also administer fluids, adjust their sedation, monitor vital functions, administer blood products if needed. The surgeon needs to be able to focus on operating; I am pretty much in charge of everything else."

"How do you control pain during the operation?"

"We give the patient intravenous doses of strong pain medications, and the surgeon injects a long-acting local anaesthetic before inserting the screws and the metal frame that keeps the patient's head in place. Most people don’t realise it, but brain tissue doesn't feel pain; the majority of the operation is painless, anyway. In some cases, the patient might be given general anaesthesia for the start and the late parts of the operation and they are only awakened for the parts where they need to co-operate; another option is to provide what we call monitored anaesthesia care, which means that they are lightly sedated for the whole operation; that means that even just talking to them will rouse them from a relaxed state. Some centres combine sedation with a so-called scalp block, which means blocking the nerves that sense pain in the scalp; it's a bit more complicated than just injecting locally but the effect lasts longer. We've been considering combining that with some newer sedatives, but since those drugs are a relatively new addition for our repertoire, we don't want to introduce two novel things at the same time."

"Does it change your anaesthesia plan if there's a complication?"

"If there is a problem with the surgery, we may have to put the patient quickly under deep general anaesthesia even just because it might be too stressful for them to listen to what's going on even if that complication doesn't affect their consciousness of require securing their airways."

John doesn't add that he may have to, for instance, intubate them in a very challenging position since their head will be attached to the metal frame called a Sugita. Such technical details probably won't interest viewers, and there is no use in making the operation sound overly scary or risky, if nothing untoward actually happens.

"How can you tell which patients are suited for awake surgery?"

"The decision is made by the surgeon and the anaesthetist together, and we can consult a psychiatrist and a neurophysiologist to help us with that decision-making. Severe difficulties in speaking, a difficult airway, brain swelling, certain psychiatric issues, and significant sleep apnoea are among potential reasons for deciding against an awake approach."

"What makes awake craniotomies special for the operating room team?" The director asks.

"We have to constantly be mindful that we have an awake patient in theatre; surgical humour can sometimes be a bit, well, brutal from a layperson's point-of-view. There are some particular rules established for these cases at King's College. We don't want extra people in the OR or any other distractions: students aren't allowed in when there's an awake case, and traffic in and out of theatre is even more tightly controlled than usual. The same team does the whole operation — no handover to the on-call staff — and the anaesthetist cannot leave the OR during the operation."

"What made you choose neuroanaesthesiology as a subspecialty, Doctor Watson?"

"They needed more people around the time when I had been a consultant for a couple of years, and I'd enjoyed what I'd seen of it. It's an area where an anaesthetist can affect the patient's prognosis, and I'm sure Mister Holmes would agree that the brain just might be the most fascinating organ."

"We will be filming the procedure tomorrow; will that add additional challenges for the surgical team? Do you think the patient is going to be more worried?"

"Having spoken to Mister Waldegrave at length about this, I can say that he appears confident to proceed this way. As he put it, the very moment when he became a brain tumour patient happened on stage with the worried eyes of the world on him. He says he wants people to see him being cured, too, and that's why he's letting the cameras into the OR."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson."

"See you in the OR tomorrow, then," John tells the director as he drops down from the chair.

Sherlock is waiting for him at the door, tying on his scarf. "Ready for lunch, _Doctor Watson_?"  
  



	2. The Stage Is Set

That night, they arrive home at around six in the evening, and John digs through the fridge and freezer for dinner options. The only still palatable items turn out to be leftover pasta, apple juice, a couple of bread rolls and tiramisu ice cream leftovers from the weekend. At the table, Sherlock browses things on his tablet while John reads the bits of the day's paper he hadn't got to at breakfast.

Eventually, John notices that Sherlock is just picking at his food and that ever so often, his partner either blinks for a for moments as though to clear this vision, then presses his eyes closed and rubs them.

John has barely opened his mouth before Sherlock fixes an angry gaze at him. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!"

"I know what you were about to say, and you're to stay out of it."

"So, you're just going to stick them in a drawer. Much good they'll do you there."

Slowly and theatrically, Sherlock digs a sleek glasses case with a Prada label out of his jacket pocket and places it on the table. "There you go, if you're so damned curious."

John grabs the case, snaps it open and slides the pair out of the case. Sleek, narrow, black frames without any decorations. Modern, minimalist. There's a small printed note denominating the properties: OU + 0.5—bilateral, symmetrical mild farsightedness just as John had thought. 'Trivex anti-reflective photochromic' says the rest of the description.

"OR lights might reflect off regular lenses," Sherlock points out, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"Sounds fancy."

His reply is a shrug. "Needs must."

"Well, if you accept that, then…" John opens the frames and presents them, arms-first, to his partner.

"Stop hounding me!"

John knows this is Sherlock-speak for _'I'll do it when I'm ready and it's not right now_'. It's just that Sherlock might just postpone the moment forever. "But you must have already tried them on at the optometrist?"

"Why on Earth would I have done that?"

"To… make sure the frames were a good fit?" John is baffled.

"The tools required for making small adjustments to the frame are not complicated, and I happen to own very good substitutes," Sherlock announces.

John has a sudden image of Sherlock using the Bunsen burner he's got tucked away in a closet to adjust his specs. He wonders if Sherlock had simply felt too uncomfortable about an optometrist adjusting them and touching his face in the process?

"I picked the frame model from the shelf, gave them my prescription. I asked their opinion whether the profile of my nose would work with these particular frames, and they assured me that it shouldn't be a problem. They seemed a bit confounded by the question, which was strange," Sherlock muses, frowning at the glasses John is still holding with his hands resting on the table between them.

John sighs and shakes his head, a smile threatening to break out. "Maybe because people don't just _ask _— they try them on."

"In public?"

John puts the glasses on himself. "Not too terrible, are they?"

"You look like the host of one of those dreadful political talk shows Mycroft watches," Sherlock scoffs, and makes no move to confiscate the glasses back.

—————————

  
John crawls out of bed, curls his toes from the shock of the cold floor and grabs his dressing gown from the back of a chair. He makes his way to the sitting room after tying his sash, not wanting to trip on the bit of fabric in the dark.

A quick glance at the digital screen of the microwave tells him it's two in the morning but the lights in the sitting room are on, albeit dimmed, and music is streaming out from the speaker system. Sherlock — barefoot, pyjamas, blue dressing gown hanging open, hair the usual bedded mess — is standing by the balcony door looking out into the dark.

When John joins him, he finds out he wasn't focused on the view, after all — his eyes remain closed until John clears his throat. After they blink open, he takes his time turning his head to look at John; it's obvious he'd been concentrating hard.

The male vocalist on the recording reaches a soaring high note, held triumphantly and dramatically for so long that even the orchestra seems to be holding its breath. Then, the violins join in and the notes dies as the orchestra repeats the aria's main theme.

Sherlock reveals his hand from underneath his dressing gown lapels; he's holding the CD case which he gives to John. It's "_The Verdi Arias_" by Carrington Waldegrave, with Riccardo Chailly conducting the La Scala Orchestra. 

"Are we working ourselves up?" John teases fondly, putting the CD on the coffee table and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist from the back, inhaling a whiff of his familiar half-a pay-check-a-bottle shampoo and the underlying scent of just _Sherlock_.

"I’m appreciating the gravity of the task."

"He hasn't lost any of his vocal skills yet, has he?"

"Emphasis on the 'yet'. If it's grade three, and I don't get it all out, he eventually will."

"If it's grade three, surgery isn't usually a cure, anyway. All you can do is your best."

"I want my best to be a curative operation."

John presses a kiss to the side of his neck after brushing aside a few curls with his fingertip. "I know you do."

He then notices the new glasses on top of a loudspeaker; Sherlock must have deliberately placed them there. It's as though he's trying to decide what he thinks about them, as if he's trying to negotiate a place for them in his existence.

"Is this how you felt when I was on your table with the dens fracture?" Sherlock asks.

John retreats a little, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I can't pretend the stakes aren't higher than usual. Was that how it felt for you? Treating colleagues is abhorrent. I can't even imagine what it would be like if our roles were reversed and if you–– if I had to––"

"It's highly unlikely that would ever happen, and let's not forget you managed fine with Mycroft because you had to. And yeah, I worried, but you wanted me there so how could I say no? Low risk patient, short sedation. You were right when you told me that night that it was nothing that I couldn't do with my eyes closed, and I still worried. The stakes are… special, tomorrow, but there's nobody better for that surgery."

Sherlock distractedly runs his palm down John's arm, then straightens his fingers and studies them. John realises it's probably a more socially acceptable stand-in preoccupation with his usual fidgeting. _Stimming_ is what it really should be called: all the monotonous tiny little gestures and movements he makes or when he paces around rooms to channel anxiety into physical action. But John never uses the word, and Sherlock doesn't use it when talking to him. Maybe one day, they could. John hopes so. Sherlock does it much more in his presence than he used to during the first years of their relationship and even marriage, but John suspects he still can't quite shake being self-conscious about it, not even at home.

"You know what I was thinking, listening to your interview? John asks.

Sherlock's brows rise.

"All this TV business and choosing an awake technique for what would normally be done under GA is a little bit unfair. Why is his singing more important than any other skills related to the areas close to the tumour, skills that everyone has, regardless of whether they're just Joe Bloggs or Jose Carreras? Plenty of people get brain tumours, some of them more _medically_ interesting than what Waldegrave has, but BBC doesn't show up for those, do they, if the patient isn't a celebrity and we're not jumping through any special hoops to get the case done."

"Some of those other patients might see the program and feel reassured?" Sherlock offers. "If a celebrity went through it and survived, maybe they can, too."

"They'll spot the difference in how they're treated as opposed to that celebrity," John argues. "I worry that we're bolstering the idea that the rich and the famous get better care."

"The rich and the famous _do_ get better care. Isn't it best that we show that some of them don't opt out of the NHS and run to some hellishly expensive private clinic?"

"You've got a point."

Another aria begins on the recording. John grabs the remote and adjusts the volume down slightly to spare the neighbours. Then, he holds his hand out in invitation. "Can I have this dance?"

"You only know how to waltz, and _Celeste Aida_ is in imperfect time, not in three fourths." Despite the protest, Sherlock does take John's hand and drapes it around his waist. His left hand laces fingers with John's right, and the fingers of his right hand perch on John's shoulder, wasting no time to start tugging at a thread that's come loose from the shoulder seam. "We need to get you a new dressing gown."

They sway vaguely to the music for a moment and though he's hardly a connoisseur, John decides that Waldegrave's singing of the classic aria from _Aida_ is exquisite. He wonders what they'll hear tomorrow in the OR. It will be quite something to get to enjoy live classical music while Sherlock operates.

"You always let me lead, though the way they taught you at school must have been the other way around," John points out.

"It was an all boys' school so we learned both. I assumed that's what you'd prefer, and that it would be the only role you knew."

"It is nice to be allowed to lead _sometimes_ in this relationship," John teases him.

"Most of the time you do, while I am limited to reacting."

"Don't put yourself down," John tells him quietly and leans their foreheads briefly together. Of all the negativity that goes around his husband's head, he has deduced that what Sherlock says out loud is just the tip of the iceberg. "Did you see Waldegrave today?"

"I always see my patients on the day before the surgery, if it's not the weekend."

"I know. Just making conversation. I went to talk to him, too. He's watched some Youtube videos so knows what to expect. Seems calm enough."

A non-co-operative or very anxious patient would not be suitable for an awake craniotomy; a sudden freak-out on the table might lead to disaster and a need to scramble for GA and intubation. All anaesthetists must interview a patient personally before agreeing to the technique, sometimes even requesting a psychiatric evaluation before the operation to assess whether the patient can deal with the stress.

Waldegrave will get the opportunity to view a preliminary version of the documentary before broadcast so that he can request parts to be cut. Sherlock and his team get such a say, too. Normally, journalists are not supposed to give this much control to their subjects, but in the case of a patient allowing a media team to observe their medical treatment, they must be sensitive to a patient's right to privacy. And it's not just the patient to whom the cameras will be an extra stressor, of course. It’s a big step for any surgeon to have their work filmed, and the pressure of an awake surgery makes the stress level formidable.

John is not surprised that Sherlock is already anticipating the pressure and losing sleep.

As the aria ends and they step away from the dance hold, Sherlock looks thoughtful. "The director promised that if there's a complication or if I so decide at any point, the cameras will be removed." Sherlock's tone is pointed, and John suspects he's seeking confirmation that John won't oppose him if he makes such a decision. “And the same goes for the patient; he can say no, too, at any point,” he adds.

"Of course. They're there by the grace of all of us," John confirms.

Sherlock goes to turn off the CD player. "I can't blame Waldegrave for being at least partially motivated to do this for career reasons. Putting this story on TV might do wonders for the sales of his next album; the masses do love a weepy story of illness and survival. A documentary on him would work, even if the cameras aren’t in the OR."

John laughs. "You're such a pragmatic."

"Part of _my_ reasons for agreeing to the documentary is that it might demystify brain tumours as an illness and brain surgery as a specialty, and remove some ridiculous misconceptions constantly cultivated in fiction. Time to break down some of the mystique."

  
________________

  
In a pinch, one might imagine that the grey, backless gown, the anti-blood clot socks and the disposable hat could be part of some very modern stage design for an opera. Carrington Waldegrave certainly does not seem to mind presenting himself in such strange attire on national television.

Once the singer has been positioned onto the operating table, John's anaesthesia nurse Clare Acreman begins hooking him up to the patient monitor. She and John have prepared a small tray table containing the instruments necessary for the insertion of an arterial line which will enable them to monitor blood pressure continuously instead of every three to five minutes. Continuous measurement of it is routine for all brain surgery: labs need to be drawn often for fine-tuning the respirator, manipulating certain areas of the brain might cause sudden hemodynamic reflexes, and during a major bleed the anaesthesia team needs constant feedback on how their fluid and blood product administration is meeting the patient's demands. John uses a long stretch of silk tape and a cardboard emesis bowl to position Waldegrave's hand wrist-up on the bed and washes the wrist area with an iodine-containing solution. After donning a mask and sterile gloves, he injects a small amount of lidocaine close to the radial artery to make the procedure less unpleasant for their patient. Waldegrave doesn't even flinch when John pierces through the skin with a cannula. When he begins withdrawing the needle slowly, he's happy to find a tiny drop of bright red blood in the plastic cannula — it means he's gone through the artery and only needs to pull the cannula back a little bit. Soon, blood spurts into it. John quickly slides the entire cannula into the artery; with the cameras watching his every move, he is very relieved to find that he'd succeeded in one go. There's no need to analyse a blood gas sample at this point; Waldegrave is otherwise healthy so it can be assumed that all his baseline parameters are normal. Samples will be taken throughout the operation to enable John to assess not just oxygenation and the removal of carbon dioxide, but also the need to intervene with glucose levels, electrolyte abnormalities and low haemoglobin among other things.

Sherlock wouldn't normally be in the OR at this stage, but due to the filming and the awake technique, he had arrived with John around the time their patient did. Years ago, when they'd done their first awake craniotomy together John had told him that patients might feel reassured to see their surgeon and to have a few words before being separated by the sterile surgical drapes. Sherlock had, unsurprisingly, protested that his appearance rarely seems to reassure anyone, but John had told him to cut the crap and behave.

John will freely admit — at least in the privacy of their home — that he likes the look on Sherlock's face when he uses his Captain Watson voice. Sometimes he employs it in the bedroom — not often, though, because he doesn't want the effect to dilute.

While John finishes up taping the arterial line in place and inserting two large-bore regular IV cannulas, the supervising nurse reads out loud the neurosurgical unit's version of the WHO checklist detailing the patient's identity and prior history, their surgical and anaesthetic plans, anticipated risks and other things that need to be taken into account. The patient is asked to recite their name, NHS number and explain for which operation for which they think they have been brought in. This is surprisingly often a difficult question for a patient, and sometimes John has even had to insist that the surgeon comes in for one more chat with the patient to ensure they truly understand what is about to be done to them. At the outpatient clinic and the ward rounds, people nod and say yes after listening to lengthy medical explanations, but they very rarely remember all the pertinent points that have been discussed, or they may be too shy to ask questions. It's natural that the shocking news of a brain tumour or an aneurysm might wipe out the details of a surgical plan from their recollections. And, doctors are certainly not always very good at explaining things in a way that is understandable for people who are not healthcare professionals.

"No second thoughts about the cameras?" John asks Waldegrave.

"No, it's fine. Not going to be more embarrassing that what's already happened."

He had not seemed outwardly nervous at all even before the sedatives kicked in; maybe a life full of battling stage nerves helps with going-under-the-knife nerves, too.

"The same question goes to the rest of the team as well," John points out. "Everyone alright with the cameras?"

The scrub nurse today is Joan Lake, an experienced neurosurgery-specialised professional who takes no nonsense from anyone. She had volunteered for the case, announcing that she wasn't fazed at all by a bunch of lenses pointed at her. "It's fine," she replies without hesitation; "We all knew what we signed up for."

The supervising nurse nods.

John connects an automatic infuser pump — the syringe of which has been filled with a sedative called dexmedetomidine which doesn't depress breathing and preserves co-operation well — to one of Waldegrave's IVs and turns it on. The dex also treats pain and tones down the body's stress response, making it an ideal sedative for an awake procedure.

As per John's instructions, Clare gives Waldegrave a small dose of another sedative; the start of the case will be the most painful and uncomfortable stage of the operation, and the patient's input won't be needed until later.

John keeps making small talk with Waldegrave, asking him about his career and his training, hoping that such conversation might not just keep him calm but also work well in context of the documentary. When the midazolam takes effect, Waldegrave begins sounding slightly drunk, but the maximum effect soon passes.

"Could you move your fingers like playing the piano, please," John requests, and after a short delay, Waldegrave complies. Toes are next, then reciting the alphabet, then a bit of singing. Even when he's clearly not using his full volume range, Waldegrave's tenor is impressive. "Baseline is normal," John announces and nods to Sherlock, who has been watching the proceedings from where he's seated by a computer console, making a final review of Waldegrave's MRI. "We're ready for you."

Sherlock dons a pair of disposable, non-sterile gloves and grabs an electric razor. "Time for a new hairstyle," he tells his patient.

"Maybe I should have auditioned for some punk opera for the next season."

"Are there any?" John asks as Clare sets up oxygen prongs under the tenor's nose.

"Plenty of operas could be classified as punk, at least if you just look at the visuals," Waldegrave tells him. "Andreas Mitisek did a punk staging of Purcell’s _Fairy Queen_in Chicago two years ago. Puck had a pink Mohawk."

Blond locks of hair begin floating down to the floor as Sherlock begins creating an opening in the man's thick mane. Hair can pose an infection risk, and the adhesive of the surgical drapes won't stay in place unless hair is shaved off.

"I promise to limit the shave only to the surgical field and its immediate surroundings," Sherlock promises dryly.

"Do what you need to get the tumour out. The hair will grow back."

Joan carefully cleans the shaved area with Betadine while John gives their patient a quick and short acting dose of a strong opioid. From the patient's perspective, the next part, which will be experiencing the insertion of the head frame screws, just might be the most painful one. Even though local anaesthetic will be used to control the pain from the pins, the pressure caused by the headframe will still be felt, and the frame cannot be removed until the whole procedure is done.

After warning Waldegrave, Sherlock makes six injections of ropivacaine mixed with adrenaline in the spots where the metallic screws of the Sugita head frame will pierce the skin and clamp on to the skull. The ropivacaine is a relatively long-acting local anaesthetic, and the adrenaline will extend the duration of the block and lessen the risk of a significant amount of ropivacaine being diffused into the patient's bloodstream.

A plastic support under Waldegrave's pillow and the pillow itself are removed. With Joan's help and John holding Waldegrave's head in position since there is now nothing supporting it and his neck from underneath, Sherlock quickly attaches the Sugita frame to the table, pushes one screw after another through the holes it in, and after a quick round of positioning, fixes them to Waldegrave's skull. There are a few grimaces on the tenor’s face as the frame is fastened but all in all, the local anaesthetic seems to have done its job. After making a final check that the pins are exactly where they need to be and the screws of the frame are firmly tightened, the team slowly lets go of their grip of Waldegrave's head. Next, Joan puts on her sterile gown, dons double gloves and begins her draping. Before the patient had arrived, she and the supervising nurse had prepared several trays and tables full of sterile instruments which sit waiting, covered by sterile cloth, for the operation to begin.

Sherlock walks to the foot of the operating table, hands clasped behind his back. "Everything alright, Carrington?" He'd told John that he had established a first-name basis with the patient since saying 'Mister Waldegrave' takes twice as long. Sherlock might need to call out to him many times during the operation to ask him to do certain things.

"That frame's a bit tight like you said but doesn't hurt. Everything's fine," the patient replies.

Sherlock and John survey the numbers and graphs on the monitors. Waldegrave's heart rate and blood pressure are slightly elevated but otherwise everything looks in order.

"I'll go scrub in, then, shall I, and leave you with John and Nurse Acreman?" Sherlock asks without stopping to listen for a reply.

One camera remains focused on Waldegrave and the anaesthesia team while another cameraman follows Sherlock out of the OR to the scrubbing area.

John hears him repeating his stern instructions from before: "No questions unless I tell you they're momentarily allowed, and the camera is not to hover above the sterile tables or the surgical field at any point. Keep it and the microphone out of my eye-line and if I tell you to leave, there will be no protestations; I will not hesitate to have security called if your presence interferes with my work."

While Sherlock prepares, John and Clare administer a dose of intravenous antibiotic and double-check that there's suitable red blood cells available at the bank, should they be needed. They also give bolus doses of two anti-nausea medications; the cortisone Waldegrave is on to bring down brain swelling around the tumour has the fortuitous effect of also helping prevent such issues. Waldegrave hasn't been on cortisone treatment long enough for it to affect his looks, but that might happen Sherlock thinks he'll need to continue it for at least a couple weeks more to lessen swelling in the area operated on.

After the operation, Waldegrave will spend at least five days on the neurosurgical ward and won't be able to return to the stage for a few months. He'll get a series of outpatient appointments with Sherlock during his convalescence.

The theatre doors swing open and Sherlock strides in, mask and surgical cap on, his still-wet hands held above his waist. He has washed them, then doused them with hand disinfectant which needs to dry entirely before he puts on his gloves. John notices that he isn't waving his hands around to hasten the process like he usually does; strictly speaking, surgeons are not supposed to do so as per the instructions of the hygiene unit but many of them do, impatient and excited as they are to start the day's OR work._Best stick to the rules today; the world is watching,_John thinks.

Sherlock picks up a folded, sterile coat placed on a side table, slides his hands into the sleeves, then presents his back to Clare since the supervising nurse who usually helps out with this is busy opening needle packets so that Joan can grab the sterile inner packet inside.

Clare attaches the gown's two pieces of Velcro around Sherlock's neck and ties the short sash belt which brings the edges together behind his back. Sherlock then moves to the sterile tables to wait for Joan to get his gloves ready. John smiles as he can see how Sherlock is itching to get to work; even with the short delay of Joan reorganising her equipment and opening a glove packet his husband is already tapping his foot on the floor. Joan offers Sherlock the first set of his double gloves; all he needs to do is to slide his hands in to both pairs, after which he presents a cardboard bit connected to the longer sash to Clare, who holds on to it while he makes a slow pirouette to wrap the end around his waist. Lastly, he tugs the other end of the sash out of the cardboard square Clare is holding and ties a neat bow.

The operating lights have been pointed at the patch of scalp lined by sterile drapes, and Joan's instrument tables and trays are now impeccably neatly organised and ready for action.

Sherlock takes his place by Waldegrave's head. "Knife," he requests sharply, and Joan has a scalpel ready.

Waldegrave must have heard the word; his heart rate is picking up. John gives his shoulder a squeeze under the drapes and arranges onto his features a reassuring smile. "The local anaesthetic's had plenty of time to work."

The cameramen have perked up at the sight of the scalpel, and as they step closer to Sherlock, John and Clare direct their attention to a monitor on a wall which is connected to a lamp camera. It shows in full technicolour the surgical field. Another monitor will soon show the view from Sherlock's surgical microscope.

With quick, bold incisions, Sherlock opens the scalp and reveals the white crown of the bony skull, red streaks of blood soon snaking across it since the scalp has plenty of blood vessels. With Joan touching the cauteriser to his forceps every time he halts his movements, he quickly controls the bleeding from each small vessel threatening to occlude his view.

"Are you alright to continue like this for a bit, Carrington?" John asks Waldegrave. He tends to refer to all of his patients who are his own are or younger by their first name, and nobody has ever complained. "I could give you a bit more sedation until Mister Holmes has reached the part where we need your help."

"It's…" Waldegrave looks thoughtful, even though the tight headframe is preventing a proper frown. "…okay to continue like this, I guess."

"The offer will stand. Just say the word if you get nervous. Nothing embarrassing about it."

"Alright."

"Carrington, you’re going to hear this sound louder soon, since it will be conducted directly into your inner ear by the bones," Sherlock warns, and soon a high-pitched whine begins on the other side of the drapes. It's the sound of a Stryker Saber drill. "This won't take long, but it will sound disturbing."

John knows Sherlock had nagged at Lestrade for a long time to get this latest model of a skull drill since it has integrated irrigation; such a feature will lighten the workload of the scrub nurses since they will no longer need to constantly apply a stream of liquid to the drilling site to limit heat production. It will also likely make it easier for the surgeon to rinse away debris from the surgical field.

"How's that feel?" John asks their patient when the sound of the drill changes, marking the start of the opening of the skull.

"Odd; it's like… I don't know how else to describe it than having bees inside my head."

"Any pain?" John inquires.

"No, I'm feeling just the vibration."

John looks up and sees that Sherlock had been listening to their exchange; Waldegrave's answer makes him relax his shoulders ever so slightly. When a patient is under general anaesthesia, it is easier for the whole team to emotionally separate themselves from what it is they are actually doing — operating on a live human being. Now, they don't have the luxury of that illusion. Even with the drapes covering everything but Waldegrave's head, Sherlock cannot escape the reality that his patient is aware of everything he's doing. Plenty of surgery is done with the patient awake — most lower limb operations are done with spinal blocks, for instance — but there's no way around the fact that operating on an awake brain, which is the seat of the very essence of what makes a person who they area — is a big step up on the stress ladder.

Once a bone piece the width of an apricot has been removed, Sherlock opens the meninges — the membranes covering the brain — while being careful not to tear any of the blood vessels crisscrossing between them. He fixes the edges of the skin incisions he has made to the side of the scalp wound with what look like hairclips attached to small metal hooks on wires. These haemostatic scalp clips should keep the flaps he has created out of the way. Both cameramen are now focusing their efforts as close as they can on the surgical field; now, Waldegrave's brain is visible through the hole.

"We've now advanced through all the structures which can sense pain," Sherlock announces, passing the instruments he'd used to attach the clips back to Joan. He flexes his fingers a few times to stretch them.

"Hear that, Carrington?" John asks.

"Yeah. That was quicker than I thought."

"Well, the next part is certainly a very slow one," Sherlock replies curtly.

John gives Clare an, amused, knowing look. Sherlock doesn't always realise how his meant-to-be-neutral statements might sound to an awake patient.

The huge surgical microscope, covered with sterile plastic, is slowly wheeled in and positioned so that Sherlock can look into the eyepieces while standing as close to the surgical field as possible. Mark Danton, the supervising nurse, turns on the video connection between the microscope and a wall monitor, enabling John and Clare to see precisely what's going on.

"How's it looking?" Waldegrave asks, having probably spotted John's attention being fixed on the monitor. It has been positioned so that the patient can't see it — surgeons sometimes do let a patient watch a endoscopic procedures, but even if someone asked, John would say no to watching their brain being sliced into.

"No swelling, everything looks normal on the cortical surface as anticipated," Sherlock announces before John gets a word in.

"You sound like an astronaut describing a planet," Waldegrave points out, which earns him half a bemused brow raise from his surgeon.

Sherlock stretches his neck to both sides, rolls his shoulders back and forth while Joan shifts around some trays; the instruments needed for the tumour removal are much more delicate than those used to open a route to the surface of the brain.

"Mini-alif and Davis," Sherlock requests. He does not need to shift his eyes away from the microscope to receive the instruments; Joan places them onto his waiting palm, the right way pointing towards the surgical field. She also wields a Fergusson suction cannula to keep the view clear of blood.

Before getting to work, Sherlock glances at John and receives an encouraging nod.

"Carrington?" Sherlock asks.

There's a hum of acknowledgement from underneath the drapes.

"I –– _we _ are ready to begin removing the tumour," Sherlock declares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waldegrave's case and the surgery is based on [the story of a Slovenian tenor](https://www.classicfm.com/composers/schubert/opera-singer-sings-during-brain-surgery/) who sang Schubert during his surgery.


	3. You Still Go To My Head

  
The next two hours pass slowly as Sherlock makes his way carefully, meticulously through brain tissue as he approaches the tumour and reveals its margins. He takes care to cauterise even the smallest bleeding vessels; the opening he's made in the bony skull is small and every drop of blood will compromise his view. As he begins removing parts of the tumour close to some crucial centres connected to the ability to sing, every time he moves forward even a fraction of a millimetre he requests Waldegrave to sing if he isn't already doing so.

"You can spare your voice when he's not telling you to use it; has to be difficult, singing on your back," John muses.

"Plenty of opera roles require weird positions and moving around; it's no bother since. As for sparing my voice: I've got roles in my active repertoire which keep me on stage for hours on end. We're practicing Handel's _Tamerlano _for Glyndebourne next summer, and the tenor is involved in a sizeable chunk of it. The original version calls for a tenor and two castrate altos; we're having to make do with a tenor and a soprano manning those roles."

"Wouldn't mind hearing a bit of Handel," Sherlock says. The words are delivered in the same calm, dispassionate tone he uses to communicate with Joan the scrub nurse. It means that he is concentrating hard but still managing to keep half an ear open to eavesdrop on John and Carrington.

"A fan of Baroque music, then?" Comes a question from beneath the surgical drapes.

"Does it have to be Handel? We're up to our ears with that or bloody Bach every time he's operating," Joan snarks, cocking her head towards Sherlock with a knowing smile.

"Well, if the lady currently inside my head's got some requests, I'm sure I could accommodate," Carrington promises.

"Something _romantic_," Joan suggests with a grin.

"Let's do some Donizetti, then. _Lucia di Lammermoor _has a splendid tenor part."

"It's also among the treacliest of operas ever written," Sherlock complains, frowning as he adjusts his microscope and stretches his neck.

John can't really comment on the topic; he doesn't know all that much about opera.

Waldegrave launches into a lively, hopeful tune, the more voluminous bits of which make the metal fixtures of the surgical lights resonate a few times. The cameraman at the foot of the bed taps his foot to the catchy melody and John lets himself relax and close his eyes for a moment, enjoying the performance. It is quite something, hearing such a trained voice so close by. He regrets sending Clare to the break room for coffee; she would have wanted to hear this particular piece. Sherlock may think it treacly, but the solemn passion of the aria is certainly affecting John.

For a few minutes, the aria being sung is the only sound in the theatre besides the quiet gurgle of Joan's suction, the hum of the air-conditioning and the occasional blip from the monitors.

When the aria ends, John can't help giving a few claps. "That was beautiful. What's it about?"

Sherlock glances at him briefly. "I believe the character is imploring the help of his ancestors, standing by their graves. He thinks his life is a terrible burden and anticipates its end."

_Of the bloody course he speaks Italian, _John chuckles. It's a country to which they have not travelled together — yet.

"The titular character has just died, and her lover is at a graveyard, preparing to stab himself with a dagger so he'd be reunited with her in heaven."

"As I said, full-blown melodrama, though I believe Donizetti had some skill with the _dramma tragico _genre," Sherlock comments dryly. "You should pick another aria; I am nearing an area where great caution is pertinent."

"Let's have some more Donizetti, then," Carrington replies with a slightly mischievous note in his voice. He launches into a mournful aria with many a sustained note.

A few minutes pass with Sherlock visibly so focused he seems closed off from his company.

Suddenly, before John has consciously even registered what has changed, he has dropped to his feet from his stool, alarmed: Sherlock's hands have halted, and the reason is now clear: Waldegrave's pitch is faltering and the Italian lyrics have turned into word salad mid-note.

John manoeuvres himself right next to Waldegrave — as close of he can get in the tangle of wires — and places his palm on the man's arm. "Carrington?"

The patient's eyes are still open and take a moment to focus on John. The tenor stops singing and starts to shift restlessly, aware that something's wrong. His head is fixed to the Sugita so he can only move his shoulders and arms a bit, but even the tiniest movement of his head could be fateful if it causes Sherlock's tiny instruments to puncture a vessel or injure a critical neural pathway. "I––" he starts, eyes wide. "J––John?"

"It's alright; we just need to pause," John tells him. "Try not to move. It's going to be fine."

Sherlock slowly withdraws from the surgical field, holds his instruments steady just above the incision. "Carrington? Could you repeat the last part of the aria you sang?" He requests. His tone has gained a slightly nervous edge.

The whole OR is collectively holding their breath.

Waldegrave has begun to breathe faster; it has really sunk in by now that something might be wrong. He makes eye contact with John, pupils blown with alarm.

John lays a palm on his arm. "It's alright; he's not touching anything at the moment. Go on, have a try." A glance towards the monitors which reveals nothing else alarming than a spiking heart rate. He cranes his neck to see what's going on; Sherlock is still waiting.

Waldegrave draws in a ragged breath, then launches back into the aria.

To everyone's relief, it now sounds as crisp, rich and precise in tone as before.

"I was merely exerting a bit too much pressure on one area; we can alter our approach vector slightly. The singing was very useful," Sherlock says, and John can hear the relief bleeding into his voice.

"Had me worried there for a moment," Waldegrave says. His speaking voice is wavering a bit; probably from adrenaline.

"This is why we're doing this awake, yeah?" John says, almost grimacing at his own tightly perky tone.

What had just happened was a frightening reminder of how high the stakes are.

——————————

Thankfully, there are no more nasty surprises during the remaining parts of revealing the tumour margins. An hour after their hair-raising moment, Sherlock announces he is ready to begin removing the growth.

"The tissue is soft, so I'll have to do this in tiny increments." He stops, shifts on his feet. "Let's take two minutes," he suddenly adds.

Their eyes meet, and John is surprised at his expression; he looks irritated and nervous, and his whole body is now telegraphing the same: he looks taut like a wire, constantly shifting his feet. He drops his instruments onto a tray next to Joan, splays his fingers and then curls them into fists.

John tells their patient to use this break to move his feet, roll his ankles, readjust his position in any way he needs to. Waldegrave has lain in the same position for hours, which is murder on muscles.

Two minutes pass, but Sherlock doesn't pick up his instruments. Joan is offering him a pair of Yasargil tumour forceps, but he doesn't take them. Instead, he extends his arms, leans his head forward a bit to stretch his back.

"Everything alright?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock snaps. "Haven't you got a patient to monitor?"

John's brows climb up. Sherlock has been on his best behaviour so far, but during the last thirty minutes he has talked less than before, and his replies and instructions to Joan are becoming increasingly clipped. As far as John can tell by looking at Waldegrave, the monitors, or even peering directly at the neat, bloodless surgical field over the drapes, everything is going according to plan.

"What's going on?" Comes a question from underneath the drapes. They have been hung so that John and Clare can constantly see their patient's face, but John is currently standing on the opposite side, exchanging confounded glances with Joan so their patient can't read him to deduce what the issue is.

John has worked plenty enough with Sherlock to have learned to recognise his various quirks and moods but even she looks alarmed.

Sherlock finally requests the forceps but does not slide them back into the route he has made to the tumour. After a moment, he places them carefully back on an instrument tray.

"Turn off the cameras," he hisses from between clenched teeth. "_Now!_"

The cameraman at his end of the OR lowers it from his shoulder. "Doctor Holmes?"

"_Shut up_."

Clare slips back into the OR, and quickly picks up the tension in the room. John cocks his head towards the monitors, and she quickly interprets that he wants her to attend to Waldegrave.

"Everything's fine," John says, wanting to reassure their patient. "Just think of this as the overture before the next act. You can rest your voice, and he can relax his muscles. Right, Sherlock?"

There's no reply, so John steps around to the other side. His partner meets his eyes, but his gaze is hard to read apart from embarrassment and alarm.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment that seems to stretch on forever before speaking. "John–– I need you to do something for me." He drops his gaze back to the surgical field; he is speaking very quietly.

John nods, hoping Sherlock will see the movement from the edge of his visual field.

"You still have the spare key to my locker?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah," John confirms. "Sherlock, what do you need?"

A nervous huff, then resignation draining the tension off the surgeon's shoulders. "_Nicotine patch_." He forces out the words quickly, probably hoping that Waldegrave won't hear. He takes a step back from the operating table, glances at a frowning Joan, then whispers so quietly that only John will be the recipient of the message: "I forgot."

John remembers he'd chewed some nicotine gum in the car, which is his go-to option for a quick morning fix. For his surgeries he prefers a Nicoderm patch or two since they provide a steady stream of the substance. It's been six hours since they arrived at work; he must be in serious withdrawal by now. No wonder he's getting moody and a bit shaky. The recent troubles with his parents had made him relapse into smoking, but he's been off cigarettes for a month now. Hence the patches.

"Any gum left? That'll work faster." John asks.

"In the breast pocket of my coat, yes."

The fact that it hadn't occurred to Sherlock that it could be the better option to quickly remedy his escalating symptoms speaks volumes about how nervous and apprehensive he'd become over this and how his concentration has suffered. John is aware of the fact that this conversation may be a bit revealing concerning how much they know about each other's lives, but he doesn't care. During the interviews and the preoperative shooting at the hospital, their private lives hadn't come up in conversation, and they had referred to one another with their professional titles. They had not made a purposeful decision to conceal their relationship, but John suspects that neither really wants to answer questions about working together as a couple, and Sherlock had mentioned being worried that someone might think he had requested John to gas for this operation just because they're involved. Some viewers might mistake that for favouritism. John had, once again, been touched by how much Sherlock cares what sort of a picture this documentary paints of them both.

"I'll be back in five," John promises, and jogs out of the OR to head down to basement level where the staff dressing rooms are. It doesn't take him long to locate the small cardboard packet of Nicoderm on the shelf in Sherlock's locker and to find the sheet of Nicorette gum in his coat. It's the strongest version, about which John would usually nag about since Sherlock had never actually smoked enough per day to warrant that strength but right now, the strength of the product is probably a good thing.

He returns to the OR, unceremoniously shoves his hand through the seam in Sherlock's surgical gown, slithers it down his deltoid, and slaps on a patch. Then, he grabs the edges of the back of the gown to pull his husband away from the operating table, and by pulling his mask momentarily away from his face, shoves a pillow of gum into his mouth. Then, he returns to their patient who looks expectant and not too alarmed; Clare has done a good job in keeping him calm. John notices Clare has also been wise enough to up the infusion rate of the dex and to administer a blissfully oblivion-inducing small extra dose of midazolam to alleviate Waldegrave's anxiety. She is talking to him quietly, telling some funny story about her dog.

"What's…up, John?" Waldegrave asks, slurring his words a bit, when John strides back into his visual field.

"What _should _be up soon are Doctor Holmes' nicotine levels. We've all got out bad habits, yeah? We need those hands steady."

"Sure, John," Carrington confirms and lets his eyes drift closed for a moment. He sounds relieved and tired.

After five minutes, the peak effect of the drugs just administered begins to wear off on the patient while it's only arriving for the surgeon: Sherlock now looks much more comfortable. John grins at the thought that he needs to keep both his patient _and _his surgeon sufficiently medicated for this to be a success.

Sherlock toes off his trainers—during longer surgeries, he sometimes prefers standing in just his socks—and nods to the camera crew. "You may resume filming."

"Right," the cameraman says, and begins bustling about again.

"Music, please, Carrington," Sherlock prompts, sounding much more composed. "And this time, something I would enjoy instead of some literal soap opera. Try "_Ombra mai fu_", please."

During the rest of the tumour removal, Waldegrave's voice does not falter, nor do Sherlock's hands. They move through some of the tenor’s favourite concert pieces, some Schubert lieds and Mozart arias. Just as the clock is hitting two in the afternoon, Sherlock announces the full removal of the tumour. A brief break is taken before backtracking from the area where the tumour used to be as they wait for the results of a biopsy sample taken from the tumour and frozen in the pathology unit so that it could be quickly sliced and analysed by one of the path consultants. The pathologist eventually calls them, and the atmosphere turns rather cheery after the announcement is made that the tissue type in the sample is, at most, grade two in malignancy. That means a good chance of a complete cure for Waldegrave.  
  


———————————

Sherlock spends one more hour dabbing at even the tiniest vessels with cotton swabs and perfecting the haemostasis, after which he tells Waldegrave that if he so wishes, he may end his concert since no more healthy brain tissue will be disturbed during the operation.

"So it's done, then? All of it, gone?" Waldegrave asks Sherlock.

"It appears so, yes. We shall order an MRI with contrast medium postoperatively, but seeing as it was grade two, I don't expect any surprises in the surrounding areas."

"Well, thank you, I guess," Waldegrave says, his tone so openly amazed that it provokes forth a bit of shared, awed laughter among the others present. "That's… I can't thank you enough. Ridiculous, really, to say _thank you_, because that's what you say when someone brings you a cappuccino."

Sherlock's mouth must have quirked up, judging by the laugh lines appearing on his right cheek at the edge of his mask.

"This reminds me, I meant to ask––" Waldegrave stumbles on his own words, sounding a bit emotional, "I was talking to the producer and we had an idea that it might be the most wonderful way to end this film of ours with you attending my first performance after the surgery. Incidentally, that's in London; a gala concert for charity. We've got Sondra Radvanovsky coming in for some Verdi duets. I'll send you two tickets each so that you can bring your better halves, unless they mind the cameras."

John clears his throat, and shares a pointed glance with Sherlock, who is turning the piece of bone removed from the skull in his hands to work out how it reconnects to its original location.

"We'll be fine with two tickets. That's a lovely offer, thank you," John replies courteously.

Waldegrave is studying John's expression. "So, um…I've been single for so long that I tend to assume everyone else has already found someone. Must be hard, trying to date with your lifestyle, if you don't mind me saying."

"You are quite right," Sherlock quips. "Which is why it was most convenient when one day, my future better half simply walked into the OR I was working in." He glances quickly at John, a smile meant just for him hidden underneath his surgical mask.

John has to give points to Waldegrave for being surprisingly perceptive even when still dosed up with quite a lot of dex. The patient's expression is, at first, confused, but then realisation seems to dawn. "The two of you? I had a hunch, but…"

"We try to keep things professional at work," John cuts in politely but firmly.

"Understood," Waldegrave says. "Two tickets it is."

Sherlock shaves off some of the sharper edges of the bone, after which he repositions it back where it belongs. All that's left is to close up the skin.

It is now safe to say that the operation has been a success. Unless some tiny blood vessel bursts and starts to bleed, there's a seizure or some other unpredictable complication, Carrington Waldegrave should make a full recovery. Even though John had liberated him from the obligation, the tenor launches into one more song.

Even John remembers hearing this one, but if his memory serves him right, it had been a choir piece. It's slow, regal and hymn-like, and the lyrics are in Latin. John's flimsy grasp of the language tells him that the title contains the words "true" and "corpse". At times, the melody becomes thoughtful, guarded, but never sad.

John starts preparing for the end of the operation by capping one of the IVs, shutting off the dex infusion and jotting down some instructions for the post-anaesthesia recovery area, Waldegrave's soaring voice continuing to be a soothing soundtrack to his duties. But when a second voice joins in, John nearly drops his pen in shock.

It's a deep baritone the singing of which he has never heard before, but it is still one of the few voices he would say he knows best in all the world.

The cameraman's eyes have gone wide, and he fumbles with his microphone to capture every bit of what's going on, muttering, "We're winning a fucking BAFTA with this!" under his breath.

This just might be a first in the history of medicine: a neurosurgeon and a patient singing a duet in theatre—Sherlock seems to know the lyrics as well by heart as the star tenor on their table. After the piece ends, the whole OR is silent until Mark, soon joined by John and Clare and the camera crew, launches into applause.

"_Ave Verum Corpus _by Mozart," Sherlock announces almost timidly. "Choir at Harrow was mandatory for two years."

"You still manage to surprise me after all this time," John says.

"How long have you been together?" Waldegrave asks. "If you don't mind me asking."

John takes in the cameras, Sherlock's completely relaxed posture and the fact that in twenty minutes they get to start preparing to transfer the patient to the recovery area and start thinking about getting home. They're all tired, but the novelty and the excitement of the day's events are so contagious that John feels no hurry to leave. They've all gone through a very strange experience together, and it suddenly feels rather natural to share a bit of his private life. After all, his and Sherlock's private and professional lives were hopelessly and gloriously entangled right from the start.

This is where he belongs, with Sherlock—in the OR, or wherever they are. "Five years. We got married last year," John adds.

He doesn't know if he had expected to see any sort of reaction from his partner to him announcing such a thing on camera—of course they can negotiate what ends up in the final reel and what doesn't, but _still_. What John certainly would _not_have expected is a smile that would light the entire room if it wasn't hidden behind a mask.

"So, he was the one who picked you?" Waldegrave asks John.

"Yes, he definitely did," John replies, and both he and Sherlock know he's not just talking about today's surgery.

________________

Two hours later, they arrive at home.

Sherlock retreats to the bathroom while John changes out of his work clothes. When he gets back to the sitting room, he realises he hasn't heard a tap being turned on, nor does anything point to the toilet seat being used. Sherlock hadn't even closed the bathroom door.

Curious, John sneaks in. In the bathroom, he finds Sherlock carefully arranging the glasses he must have had in his jacket pocket onto his features, nose scrunched up in concentration. He then places his palms on the sink, leaning closer to the mirror to scrutinise the sight.

To John he looks like…_Sherlock_. He'd picked the frames well; they don't alter the shape of his face, and the sleek design will make it quick for John to get used to him having them. The only one whose adaptation process he worries about is his husband, of course. John can't quite work out why Sherlock had picked this moment to finally put them on. _Perhaps the successful surgery boosted his confidence?_

But, judging by Sherlock's apprehensive expression when he notices John, that doesn't seem to be the case. John takes a moment to choose his commentary carefully. Praise will be dismissed, and every word scrutinised and over-analysed for signs of amusement—or worse: ridicule.

It's probably best if he just emphasizes his own viewpoint. "I like them. They're very you," he says, sliding his arms around Sherlock's waist from behind and gently trapping him between himself and the sink. "Why now?"

Sherlock stops staring at himself in the mirror and relaxes a bit against his husband. "I didn't want to disturb the equilibrium right before Waldegrave's operation."

John smiles. Sherlock never ceases to amaze, surprise and confuse him. He'd been the one to suggest turning their world upside down by relocating to a developing country, but now, back at home, he curates his existence so carefully, believes that any small factor could unbalance him. John remembers how much he'd struggled with the halo vest. While its physical reality had posed the biggest problem, Sherlock had been also terribly preoccupied with how others would see him in it. The glasses just might speak of the same thing: that he wants to control every aspect of his interactions with others and every bit of how they see him because he fears that even the smallest thing could destroy whatever good rapport he's built with the rest of humanity.

Even if that small thing is just a necessary thing to help him see better.

Once, John might have thought that he could change it if he loved his partner enough, if he showed enough love that he might start seeing himself the way John does. But it doesn't work that way. It's Sherlock who needs to find things about himself he might like, so that he could understand others might like those things, too. He's had some positive experiences lately, and after starting to see Doctor Pichler he seems to be more open to communicating about certain things that make life more difficult for him. John wouldn't go as far as to say he's accepting certain parts of himself, but that's what John hopes night happen one day. That Sherlock could be proud of himself the way John is immensely proud of him, instead of always assuming he's doing the wrong things and being the wrong sort.

"I have been looking forward to reading being easier," Sherlock reveals carefully.

"Well, you should go test that out, then."

"I will also acquire contacts. And look into laser surgery," Sherlock insists.

"Alright. I just want to make sure you're not doing any part of that on my account." John steps back to allow both of them to return to the bedroom.

"I might wear them to work tomorrow."

John can interpret this to be a question. "It's going to be fine," he tells his still worried-looking husband, sitting down on the bed while Sherlock sheds his jacket. He suddenly realises that things _have _changed: before, Sherlock tended to hide from him whenever he felt unsure about himself, whenever he was apprehensive about something. Now, he asks John for advice and support in his own circumspect and concealed manner.

John just needs to pay enough attention to pick up on it.

"I will remove them for sex," Sherlock assures him.

John realises that this is yet another question disguised as a statement. "If you want to."

Sherlock opens his mouth, frowning as though he has further inquiries. He gently pries the glasses off his nose, scrutinises them, then puts them back on. "Marie got glasses last year. Near-sightedness and slight astigmatism."

"Well, there's your peer support for getting used to them."

"I noticed instantly, of course, but several people commented that they looked as though she'd had them a long time."

John can't bring himself to point out that they were probably trying to be polite. "There you go."

"I will first wear them to the clinic and see if Marie comments on them."

John shakes his head, lip quirked up. _London's arguably best neurosurgeon but he still needs to strategise about putting a pair of specs on. _

"I do hope they won't intervene with kissing. We might need to experiment with possible head tilt angles to avoid problems," Sherlock announces.

"Well, we could do that right now, if you want," John offers. _I love you, you wonderful madman._


	4. To Be Fully Known

The minute Sherlock walks in the door, Violet spots the glasses. "Oh," she says. "They suit you."

Mildly surprised at the reaction, Sherlock sheds his coat before submitting himself to a motherly hug.

It has taken him months to work up to this visit. The triumph of Waldegrave's surgery seems to have provided him with the final boost of confidence he needs. It has taken time, some changes in his life, and the help of Doctor Pichler to enable him to distance himself from his family. Taking a step back is what has been vital in forming a more objective, more analytical view of his childhood and his relationship to his mother.

Now, the time has come to find out how great that distance needs to be in the future. He and Pichler had agreed that the TV premier of the documentary could provide a context in which to attempt discussing such things with Violet Holmes. Though the psychiatrist has prepared him well for this, Sherlock had still been a bundle of nerves on the train. He'd abandoned the tea he'd bought from the circulating trolley after a few sips; stomach acid was making his guts churn and twist with anxiety.

On the phone, his mother had been confounded by the suggestion that he'd come to Sussex to watch TV with her. Still, she had accepted, sounding over the moon even just because Sherlock had deigned to give her a call.

There's thirty minutes before the documentary is on, so they make tea and then take over the sofa. As always, Violet has home-made baked goods arranged neatly on a plate. George is visiting a former workmate; Sherlock doesn't mind that he's not present. George can watch the program later since Violet is taping it, and him being absent will allow Sherlock a conversation with his mother alone without anyone attempting to soften things and to change the subject. This is why he hadn't even brought John as backup.

Violet leans against the backrest of the sofa. "Just so you know, I'm not one who normally watches medical programmes. But, because you are in it, I'm willing to do so. I just hope it won't be very graphic. I cannot abide very bloody and unsightly things; you know this, Sherlock."

"I promise you it will not be significantly visually disturbing." Sherlock puts down the cup and marvels at the fact that his hands are always steady in the OR but now, he has to work hard to conceal the fact that the hand holding a fine china teacup is shaking slightly from nerves.

He lets her natter on about neighbours' comings and goings and the internal dramas of the village committee until the grandfather clock in the hall chimes the hour and the documentary begins.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take long before his mother starts commenting on what is happening on screen. "That two-piece really suits you and you handled that interview well; did it involve a lot of re-takes?"

"No, it didn't." He makes a conscious effort to keep his answers short; this is not the place or time to quibble with her reactions. He also doesn't volunteer that John had helped him prepare for it.

Speaking of his husband, Violet practically melts at the sight of him on the television. "Oh, he's such a reassuring presence! I bet the patients just _love_ him."

Before, Sherlock would have interpreted this as the veiled comparison between him and John it is, but now he is able to let his irritation fade away without needing to voice it.

When the surgery begins, Violet falls silent. She even stops sipping her second cup of tea, focussing hard on the documentary.

When Waldegrave's singing goes sour, Sherlock watches her hand go to her mouth in horror. "Oh dear, what happened? Has something gone wrong?"

"No, although that is an indication of a heightened risk of a complication. What just happened is the very reason why the surgery was done with the patient wide awake. Keep watching."

By the time the program ends with the sight of Waldegrave shaking both Sherlock's and John's hands as he is being discharged, Violet is quiet. Studying her expression, Sherlock notices that she looks quite stricken with some unidentified emotion.

He consoles himself with the fact that it might mean he has gotten his point across. They watch the end credits roll, neither of them saying anything.

"I didn't quite realise––" Violet finally starts as a trailer for the next season of Midsomer Murders comes on. She digs out a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at the edges of her eyes before she continues; "How _wonderful _for that young man that you could help him. Will he make a full recovery?"

"Yes, he should. I will see him at my outpatient clinic in a month."

"I had no idea such things could be done, that a patient could be awake during surgery like that. John did a marvellous job at keeping him calm." Violet then takes a long silence. "My little boy," she finally adds, patting Sherlock's knee absent-mindedly. "A brain surgeon," she says quietly, marvel in her tone.

Sherlock stops himself just in time before indulging in an eye roll. He's been a neurosurgeon for years, yet that fact hasn't quite penetrated the grey matter of his own mother.

Before Violet can use the ensuing silence to change the subject, Sherlock reaches underneath the coffee table, and produces his bag, pulling out a brand-new photo album. "I've brought you something." He passes the item to her. "Since you love showing everyone who visits all those family photos, I've assembled some newer ones."

He folds his legs underneath him on the sofa, leaning closer to see better the album now on Violet's knees. Her expression is that of surprised delight as she opens the first page. _'Sherlock — adulthood_' is the text hand-written on the title page; it's in the style of how she has named old albums according to either his or Mycroft's ages. In addition to a title, hand-written descriptions have been added under each photo. Some of them are in his handwriting, some in John's; they'd done this together. At first, it had been an exercise — a homework assignment given to him by Doctor Pichler to gather a folder of photos on his computer of the important moments in his life, but it had given Sherlock a further idea which she had then whole-heartedly supported. They had speculated many times during therapy sessions what kinds of opportunities there might be to try to have a sensible conversation with his mother about the way he treats her, and this had felt like a non-confrontational way to communicate certain things to her.

He has very little to lose by trying.

The first photo spreads contain snapshots from his gap year and his university studies. At first, he'd hesitated putting in anything featuring Victor, but Doctor Pichler had been adamant: "Your time in London with Victor was important to you. Your mother may not have accepted or understood it, but this is _you_, telling _her_, about your life, and only you get to define the importance and nature of different life events."

There aren't very many photos in existence from his life with Victor, but one old Polaroid shows the two of them on the sofa of some London acquaintance. Victor is laughing, arm draped on the back rest of the ratty old sofa they are sitting on. Sherlock is leaning against Victor, watching him with slight amusement and unwavering focus. It's very likely they'd both been high on something that day. This Sherlock doesn't point out to his mother.

"Oh, that horrid boy!" Violet exclaims. "You weren't even an adult then; just a rebellious teenager. You have no idea… When you ran away from home, we were so _terrified_!"

"That was your problem, Mummy. Maybe if you'd have let me just be myself a little more, then I wouldn't have had to leave home to find out what it would mean to be an adult. I got there in the end."

She gives him a scandalised look and starts to turn the page, but Sherlock quickly slips his hand in to stop her. "Victor died last year. I hadn't seen him or talked to him after I went to rehab. I was with him when it happened, but I didn't get to talk to him, he was too ill when he was brought to the hospital. He was my friend, Mother, and he wasn't responsible for all those bad decisions I made; _I_made them. He didn't take advantage of me or force me into anything."

"I find that hard to believe."

Sherlock artfully ignores the comment because there is something more important he needs to get out. "I'd like you to say you're sorry to hear this. That he's gone."

"What? Why?"

"I'd like you to offer your condolences, such as you would demand from me if this was you telling me that a person who was once very important to you had passed away. No, I still don't _care_ about such social conventions, but it is only fair to level the playing field. I want the same rules to apply to the both of us."

Violet looks apprehensive. "Of course, it's never a nice thing to lose people we know. I am sorry, if you need me to be."

_Good enough_, he decides, andlets go of the album page.

The image filling most of the next page makes Violet her purse her lips. George had taken it; it shows Sherlock at home after rehab. He is very thin, with shadows under his eyes, but he is sober and serene and reading a medical textbook while lying on this very sofa.

"You look so skinny; like a ghost you were, when you came home. Mycroft should have found you a better treatment centre."

"Clouds House has a chef trained in a Michelin restaurant, chamber music concerts, and it costs ten grand for a 28-day stay. Believe me, Mycroft did well. Not that any of those things made the whole thing much more bearable."

"Why did you not come to us? We would have paid for it."

"I did, afterwards."

"Not what I meant. Why did you ask Mycroft for help?"

"Because I knew he'd get it sorted with less fuss and judgement than the two of you. You like assuming and telling people that my emotional life is stunted and incomprehensible. Well, I can certainly experience shame and embarrassment."

Sherlock sniffs. "I am not embarrassed about that photo, and I don't see it the way you do. What _I_see when I look at that photo is me focussing on something that I really, really wanted to do. Try seeing it my way for once."

She doesn't answer, but Violet's expression softens when the next spread brings forth a set of photos from Cambridge. The first one is of Sherlock in his first college room. "I remember when we helped you move into King's," she reminisces. "You hated your roommate right from the very start."

"The feeling was mutual. It really didn't help that his choice of music was something he called _thrash metal _and mine was Bach." He flips over to a photo of him playing the violin with his tutor at the King's Music Society. He never tried for the college orchestra because it would have meant dealing with other students.

The next parts of the Cambridge collection include some group photos from courses, his student badge from Addenbrooke's Hospital and his graduation photo. After that come all the photos he could possibly find from when he was an SHO and a registrar.

Then, it's time for the photos of which he is the proudest: images from his PhD evaluation and from award ceremonies; there's also one taken for the press release about his new smart shunt research project. There's a page from a conference program leaflet featuring him as a keynote speaker, and a snap taken by John of him and Alice together in the OR where he is explaining something to her. One of the images Violet studies the longest shows him playing in a string quartet last Christmas for the staff party.

In addition to photos, Sherlock has also included a printout of some of the positive feedback he'd received from colleagues for a training seminar. Violet doesn't comment on them, and Sherlock wonders why. They must be in stark contrast to how she assumes he botches things up constantly at work when it comes to interpersonal relations and communication.

Next up is a photo of him and Marie having tea in the staff room also taken by John; he's smiling at something the nurse has said. There are images from Malawi, including ones snapped during enjoyable evenings socialising with Åse and Jens-Erik. Wedding photos could be in this section, but there are already several of them framed and arranged around this house so Sherlock had decided they were unnecessary.

The next spread is one that twists Sherlock's stomach into knots because it will reveal new things to Violet. He straightens his shoulders and inhales as she leans closer to scrutinise the photos.

Firstly, there's an image from Afghanistan. It's from the memorial service to soldiers who had perished in the attack which nearly killed John. In the image, the two of them are standing in front of a large tent at Camp Bastion. John's arm is in a bright orange sling, and Sherlock is wearing borrowed T-shirt and camouflage trousers. They both look… haunted. Miserable. Apprehensive.

"Sherlock?" Violet asks. "What is this? Where was this taken?"

"That's from Camp Bastion, in Afghanistan. With Mycroft's help, I was able to go see John right after he was injured."

"You went to Afghanistan? Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because it never occurred to me to do so. All I could think of was getting out there to him. And then helping him recover. It wasn't easy."

"No, I can't imagine it was, especially for you."

He bristles at that assumption. "Not _especially_, Mummy. It would have been hard for _anybody_; you need to stop blaming everything on assumptions you made about me when I was a child."

Perhaps stung by his rebuke, Violet doesn't reply. Or, perhaps it's because she has now noticed a picture of Mycroft on the next page. It's a short article from the Trust newsletter, describing the new CT at the A&E department of King's College Hospital — Mycroft had been among the very first imaged with it when he was brought in with a head injury. The article, written naturally with the patient's consent, features an image of his CT of the subdural haematoma Sherlock had evacuated in an emergency operation.

The photo in the article, snapped at the neurosurgical bed ward, shows Mycroft reading The Financial Times with his head wrapped in gauze. Sherlock is certain he'd agreed to the article since he thought there might be some PR value in it for his drug company.

"Why is this here?" Violet asks. "Why is Mycroft's head injury in your album?"

"Because I was the surgeon in the case," Sherlock says. "I wasn't aware of his identity until he was already in the OR, and if we'd waited for someone else to take over the emergency surgery, he would have died."

"Why did you not tell me? Why did he not tell me?! You _operated_ _on Mikey_? I cannot quite––"

"_Mummy_. Either you wouldn't have believed me, or you would have assumed it had been a disaster, and if Mycroft ever developed a complication, you would have blamed me. I did what I had to do, and I did it well. There wasn't time to wait for another surgeon; even the GMC condones treating family members in such a force majeure scenario."

Violet shakes her head in disbelief, and Sherlock fears she is just dismissing it all as is her habit. He realises he may need to make the point more strongly, "When it comes to not telling people, I don't think you have a lot to complain about, given the way you and Dad concealed his illness. It's normal to be careful about worrying other people. It appears you and me and _everybody_is prone to making that mistake_. _Maybe we all need to be a little more trusting in this family._"_

She hums noncommittally and turns the next page.

Now comes a spread focusing on Sherlock's relationship with John. There are holiday photos, images from work, pictures taken by friends at social occasions. One is a picture John had taken of Sherlock and his diving instructor having a shared smoking break to calm both their nerves. He had been lucky to come across just the right sort of person to get him through what had been quite an overwhelming activity at first. Sherlock hopes that one day, he might find a driving instructor like that.

Paired with the smoking break photo is an image of Sherlock behind the wheel in Malawi, taken by John.

"You were _driving_?"

"Yes. I learned how out there. Fewer distractions and it turned out to be useful because I was able to drive John to the hospital when he succumbed to Dengue. Not my favourite activity, it has to be said, but I can do it if I have to somewhere with not a lot of traffic."

"Oh, it seems such a dangerous a thing for you to do."

"Perhaps you need to reassess that idea of yours that I am congenitally incapable of learning new things." He tries to keep the acid in his tone down, but her continuing disbelief in the face of concrete evidence is disappointing.

The next image is the most recent one, taken by John of Sherlock and George at Baker Street after George's final radiation therapy session. Sherlock is playing the violin, and George is smiling. He looks tired, sitting on the sofa wearing an old dressing gown he'd brought with him from Sussex. Still, his expression would have marked him as a man celebrating something even if he didn't have a glass of champagne in his hand.

"It was nice, having Dad stay with us."

"Ah yes," Violet says in an odd tone. "Part of your campaign to side-line me."

Sherlock's anger bursts into flame again. "This isn't about you!"

"He's my husband! George needed support, all this with his prostate was very frightening for him. I don't understand why you wouldn't agree to me coming up with him."

"Because you would have sucked up all the oxygen in the room. Because _you _would have been the one to need all the attention. I was there for Dad, and so was John, and it was enough. Perhaps now you have some idea of how _I _felt when you always insisted that I was too _busy _to spend any time with him. I gave him the information he needed; I was there to answer questions instead of fussing him towards an early grave."

"_Sherlock!_"

Though his mother's disciplinary tone makes him flinch, he's not done. "I didn't spend that time telling him what to do or what he should be thinking or feeling. Getting hysterical never helped anyone; he needed space and time and other things to think about. I wanted him to have the opportunity to make his own decisions. I see it all the time, family members being too emotionally reactive to really consider all the facts and pressuring a patient into things."

"He is not your patient," Violet reminds him sternly.

He scoffs. "No, but an ill-informed third party might well think that you were his caretaker for the way you steamroller all over him. Just like you did with me before I left home. The way you still try to do."

"What is this really, William?" She asks, now sounding irritated and confounded. "I thought we were going to look at some nice photographs, but you are constantly finding fault with me, regardless of what we discuss."

_Now you know what it feels like. _Sherlock realises they're heading for their usual cul-de-sac, so he points at the photo again. "I didn't know you and dad used to go to lots of concerts before I was born."

"It was George's thing, but I enjoyed the socialising. He didn't like going alone, and when you were born… You were too clever for all the babysitters; it just wouldn't work. So, that was something that simply fell off our schedules. The violin lessons for you were his idea. He never got to play an instrument as a child."

"I didn't know that about dad. There's lots I don't know about him because I never spent much time with him," Sherlock explains. "This time with him when he was staying at our flat has been a chance to catch up, learn things about him which I didn't know before."

"He felt unsure of what to do, how to act with around you. He never quite got around to learning about your…_you_. He was always afraid that he'd do something wrong, something that would make things worse for you; it was easier for him to support Mikey. He said that I had already put in the work so I should take the lead with you. It was a very unfamiliar world for us both."

"So he just…checked himself out?" Sherlock has always blamed Violet for not having had opportunities to spend time with his father. Never had he considered that it could have been a conscious decision by Georgeto withdraw from their relationship.

"If you must know, I was angry with him often for that," Violet says bitterly. "The way he left me alone to make all the decisions. Left me alone, with you, while he worked. He got to continue living like most fathers would. For me, everything changed when we learned you were––" she trails out, embarrassed.

"––autistic," Sherlock offers. "On the Spectrum. A special needs child," he adds reluctantly. For him, they are mostly just words, now—no longer a noose she kept tightening around his neck for years. Being on a Spectrum is a part of him, but it doesn't define all of him. He won't let it.

"He doesn't feel that way now about you," Violet assures her younger son. "He was in very good spirits when he came home from London. The radiation took a lot out of him, but he said you took care of all the practicalities and he enjoyed his time with you. And he said that John is a very good cook."

Sherlock smiles. "I think John felt he should try to show off after years of being pampered with good food in this house. He never cooks as much as he did when Dad was staying with us. Turn the page, there's one more photo."

On the very last page is an image Sherlock had been most hesitant to include. In the end, he had realised that it just may be the most important one.

The image is of himself, taken at closed range, in the messy bed of the anaesthesia on-call room at King's College Hospital. Only a sheet covers him up to his upper torso, his hair is sticking up a bit and he is watching the photographer with a languid expression which could only be described as utterly happy. This is a moment just for the two people involved, one very few would share with their parents. But, out of all points Sherlock could have made to his mother about how far he's come — how many things he has achieved which she would have never expected — this is the greatest. This proves how greatly she has underestimated his ability to carve himself the existence he wants. This proves that he's not a child.

"John took this. On the morning after we made love for the first time," Sherlock says quietly but proudly.

Violet's expression is odd as she shifts her gaze from the photo to him. "What's that thing young people say these days — _too much information?_This is not what people put in family photo albums, Sherlock," she chides in that tone he is both used to and loathes. _'This is not proper behaviour, Sherlock. Hasn't your therapist told you this? You must have not listened!'_

He grits his teeth. "That picture is there for a reason: to show you that I am perfectly capable of an adult, sexual relationship, and that I am _happy._"

She closes the album and rests her hands on it. Not passing it back to Sherlock must mean that the gift has been accepted.

"Yes, mother. I have an independent life, a job I enjoy, a husband. And, what I want is for everyone to focus on those things when we visit, not the way I was as a child. That's not me, now. You keep declaring you worry about me, but I'm _alright_. John manages, too, and you don't need to be giving him advice all the time on how to deal with me. He knows me the way I am, now." Sherlock swallows. "And I wish that you could be interested in getting to know that person, too."

"Of course I am––"

Sherlock raises a hand. With the help of Doctor Pichler, he has thought long and hard what to say, and he needs to say it now.

"For twenty years, you have been firmly stuck in my childhood, and when we spend time together, the way you behave drags me back there, too. Times have changed, and unless you start changing with them, we cannot have a sensible relationship."

Uncharacteristically, Violet says nothing, simply straightens the album on her lap.

"I recognise it may be difficult to change long-standing patterns of behaviour, and the way I interact with you is also complicated by such things. But, if I am to continue visiting for Christmas — or for any other occasion — without it ending in conflict, I need you to know this: I am an adult and you need to respect that."

"Of course, I do."

"Then you have to _act _like it. I can no longer endure your constant attempts at educating, correcting, belittling and mediating the way I eat, speak, act in the presence of others — the way I lead my life. No, I'm not _normal _and _conscientious _and _perfect _like Mycroft, but I don't _want _to be like him. Whether I succeed or fail in any given situation is not your responsibility anymore, and you no longer get to set the standards for what failure means. By behaving the way you do, even if you are just trying to prevent me from saying or doing something that might embarrass me or hurt or inconvenience others, you constantly draw attention to something that I won't let be the sole definer of me anymore."

"William, I can't quite–– Where is this all coming from?"

He can't afford her to deflect this; he can easily imagine she would be tempted to blame someone else for putting these ideas in his head. He needs to keep the conversation on point. "I can't have a moment's peace in this house because I keep fearing what it is in your eyes that I will next do wrong."

"I just wish to _help _you!"

"You have done _enough_!" Sherlock snaps. "You have done enough to sour my every achievement with the fact that I have done _so well for someone with my_ _defects_. Not every bloody thing is about autism! Not my every good trait and habit is due to how much work you and those godawful therapists put in, and not every undesirable habit is a symptom. I don't smoke because I'm autistic. I don't get distressed when John is upset because someone taught me how to do that. I have an actual personality, Mother, not just a diagnosis."

"I would give those therapists more credit that you do," Violet comments, averting her gaze. "I don't know why you're suddenly picking on me like this. Do you think it was easy, being told how to raise my own child? Being told that I couldn't possibly do a good job without all those experts?"

"That's not the point! Absolutely, yes, even _I _can tell it was difficult, being _my _mother, but none of you ever asked _me _what I wanted, what I needed!"

He takes the photo album off her lap and puts it onto the coffee table. "I am not just the sum of the things people with the lacklustre knowledge told you or you read in books in 1985, and I think you'd do well to buy some new ones if we really must keep revisiting the topic of my ASD. If you want to know what it means and what it's like to be me, ask _me_. It's just that I am not very good at verbalising these things, and it has taken me a lot of work to be willing to even discuss them with John. The message I got for thirty years was that those things needed to be hidden, explained away, kept secret. For thirty years, I was told that a part of me, that _huge _part of me, was just _wrong_."

Violet is quiet, wide-eyed. "I didn't know you felt that way. How could I have known? You have done so well, I wanted you to do even better, and I worry so terribly much about you––"

"You don't need to do that anymore."

Violet folds her hand into her lap. "How can I not worry about _my child_? How can I not worry when you don't tell me about you, about how it is you are getting on? I have to ask John, or Mycroft — after all, he was the one who told us you were seeing someone!"

"Because I didn't want you to meddle. I didn't want you to show up with your stories and your advice and your outdated notions of how to _manage __me_. I wasn't going to listen to you assuming John was stringing me along, that I didn't know what I was doing, and that I couldn't possibly handle being romantically involved with anyone. I believed exactly that for a long time: that there wasn't anyone out there for me, that I couldn't possibly manage a relationship. I'm not John's charity case; he's not my caregiver. God, the fact that I need to say such things out loud––"

He looks away and huffs, letting his hand dangle down beyond the hand rest. Natch pads in to give his knuckles a lick.

He knows how the conversation Mycroft had with her and their father about his relationship with John had gone down because Mycroft had relayed it to him on the phone. It seems his brother had felt duty-bound to inform Sherlock that he'd what he'd described as _'sensitive personal information_'. According to Mycroft, Mummy had dismissed the whole thing at first, replying to his announcement that Sherlock had _'met someone_' by saying that Sherlock must meet new people all the time at work.

_'No, mother, he is seeing someone. By all intents and purposes, he has a boyfriend. They've even moved in together.'_

_'Who is this? When has this happened? George, did you hear that? Did you know about this? Who is it, Mycroft; who is this man, then? Is he taking advantage of our William?!'_

Mycroft had told him it had taken quite a long time from her to calm down. She'd even burnt a tray of hot cross buns. This is the reason Sherlock had included that last photo and put off for ages taking John home to Sussex to meet his parents — the assumptions and prejudices he'd have to battle. He'd hemmed and hawed for so long that Christmas began to approach, even considered inviting George and Violet to London for dinner to be on more even ground. In the end, his mother made the decision for him: when she called about Christmas arrangements and schedules in late November, she asked if Sherlock's _'young man_' would be joining them and informed him that John would be most welcome.

John had been in stitches over that term.

It later turned out that his father had been the more offended by Sherlock's decision to keep quiet about the two of them dating and having moved in together. George never expressed it to either of his sons, but he had once said to John he had been sad and disappointed that Sherlock didn't feel as though he wanted to come to them with such important news.

In hindsight, Sherlock regretted not telling his father. He would have been better than Mycroft at breaking the news to Violet.

"I'm happy for you, and don't you ever doubt that," Violet tells him now. "So happy that you can't even imagine it. Not just for, well, all that––" she nods towards the television. "It was hard," she says, voice strained. "No, it was hell, in the eighties, to be told that your child wasn't expected to manage in life the way other children would. We didn't know any families with children like you, and what little I could find in the library — no internet then, none of those support groups that are everywhere now — was just crushing. George, bless him, would have accepted things the way they were, but I decided no. No, my son would have the same as every other child, the same chances, the best help I could get. I wouldn't send you to some special school where the most they'd expect was… I don't even know what they would have done with you. Will––_Sherlock_, dear, I didn't know what to do, because nobody could tell me, really. They gave the diagnosis, and then they said that every child with it is different and I kept thinking, well how am I going to know what I need to do, then? Trial and error, it was. I know it was the hardest for you, but that doesn't mean it wasn't so very hard for us, too. The medical establishment had barely stopped blaming mothers for autism, you know. I tried always to be optimistic, but I would never have dreamt that you could do all these things you have managed. Half of the time I can hardly believe it because it seems too good to be true. Every time you got frustrated and angry because you couldn't understand others and they couldn't understand you, every time you were upset and neither of us even knew why, I felt so terrible because if I didn't know how to make it better for you, how could anybody else?"

Violet is now visibly tearing up, which makes Sherlock deeply uneasy. He doesn't know how he's expected to react; she is being more honest and open to the conversation than he had ever expected. He had considered it most likely that she'd be insulted and leave the room, all of what he needed to communicate being dismissed.

Now, he truly has upset their mother like Mycroft sometimes accuses him of doing. It's been the easy route to take to just be angry at her, to blame her for so much. Doctor Pichler says that every child must at some point come to the epiphany that their parents are not perfect, and perhaps Sherlock had realised that much earlier than most. Today, she has said things he wishes he'd heard from her much earlier. But, he cannot forgive her just like that. Not for over thirty years of her particular brand of destruction.

Violet has now regained her composure and seems to be waiting for him to say something.

"I have a therapist," Sherlock admits. "I am seeing a cognitive psychotherapist who I chose based on her up-to-date expertise in ASD. Her approach is the opposite of trying to turn myself into a _normal __boy_."

It's so hard to keep the venom out of his voice when talking to his mother about all this. He refrains from mentioning that occasionally Joanna Pichler helps him script conversations because she would think its validation for her ancient methods. She probably wouldn't understand the distinction that when Doctor Pichler does it, the aim is to enable him to best say when he wants and needs to communicate, instead of rote-learning pointless social conventions.

"That's good, dear, that you are seeing someone like that. I always worried that it wasn't good, giving up all the support and the therapies when you grew up."

He grits his teeth. "I don't have a life-long need for a therapist because I'm autistic. I need her expertise for specific things, specific life events, such as training a younger surgeon and what has been happening lately."

Violet's lips thin and her expression steels up. "Are you saying you need her because of Christmas? Are you blaming me for needing a therapist?"

From somewhere, Sherlock manages to summon enough patience not to get overtly angry. "They don't blame mothers anymore. They never should have. And maybe you should stop overcompensating for that, or whatever it is that makes you treat me this way."

"What do you want me to do, then?" Violet asks, sounding somehow high-handedly exasperated and genuinely dejected at the same time. "It took me a long time to learn all the things those professionals told me to do. Now you say I shouldn't do them, that they are wrong. What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Nobody taught you how to deal with Mycroft, did they? You just treat him like you treat every other person. You could try that on me." 

"If I treated you like that, it would make me feel like I am a stranger to you. We went through so much together when you were little, Sherlock. It was hard, but I wouldn't give those years up, not for anything in the world."

Suddenly a tear slips down her cheek. "Then you grew up and pushed us away. I thought that maybe after you parted ways with Victor you'd come to your senses and rely on your family again. I saw how much you struggled in medical school; I wanted you to come home, stop making things so hard on yourself. But you wouldn't let us in anymore."

"I didn't want you to make things easy for me then and I don't want you to do so now. That wasn't helpful, that was telling me to quit because I was doomed to fail. Very often your attempts only made it more obvious to others that I wasn't like them instead of helping me avoid disappointment. That's why I wouldn't declare special needs at Cambridge; I didn't want to be judged on different standards than others. I wanted to graduate as a doctor, not as a doctor on the Spectrum."

"You have done so well," Violet repeats cryptically, fussily dabbing at the edges of her eyes with a napkin.

"Then _tell me that_! Tell me I've done well, instead of making me feel miserable over not eating Mycroft's bloody patés!"

His outburst effectively silences her.

Violet had obviously missed the text written down on the final spread of the album. When Doctor Pichler had read it to Sherlock, it had resonated with him. He'd scoffed to find it was from the Bible since he is a firmly grounded atheist but, seeing how important the church is to Mummy, the more he thought of it, the more pertinent it felt to include.

The page reads: _'When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I set aside childish ways. Now we see but a dim reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.'_

Maybe, one day, she will understand these words the way he does.

Right now, it appears he needs to offer his own words to explain, to smooth things over: "This is what we do when I try to change things on my own, when I won't put up with that old stuff anymore: we argue. When I come here, it's coming back to the way things were and that makes things complicated. I didn't want to tell you about the therapist, but I decided to do so because she raised the question whether it would be a good idea for the two of us to see her together. If you're willing, it might be a good idea. If you really want to help me, then that could be the way to do it instead continue the way we have been for fifteen years. You asked what you should do instead of sticking to the advice you got all those years ago; if anyone has fresher perspectives to offer, it's Doctor Pichler."

One thing she has pointed out has properly cut to the bone: that Sherlock had actively pushed his parents away, that he doesn't tell them things. He'd been hurt that they didn't tell him father was ill, but isn't that what he's been doing for a long time, too — concealing things because he hasn't wanted to face their reaction? Pichler has been supportive of his anger but also gently pushing him towards being the one to extend an olive branch. It's absurd, really — _him_, of all people, trying to solve an interpersonal conflict. Then again, maybe it's only absurd because that's what he has chosen to believe for decades — that he can't do such things because of who he is. Maybe this is exactly what he needs to do to prove to Violet Holmes, once and for all, that the little boy she had feared would never reach her potential has done precisely that—and more.

_Olive branch_, he reminds himself. "If we start understanding each other more, maybe I could visit with and without John, sometimes. And maybe sometimes call you."

"And you will visit at Christmas, of course," she adds hopefully.

"About that––" Sherlock starts, then hesitates. This is going to be his biggest step forward, and he has no idea how she'll react. Most likely badly. "We won't be spending Christmas here this year. Instead, Mycroft has kindly invited us—all of us, you and Dad included—to Zurich, where you won't need to do any cooking."

It had been a long conversation with Doctor Pichler which had led to this suggestion. Usually, she doesn't tell him what to do, but after confronting him about his reasons for enduring outstanding amounts of stress during Christmases in Sussex, he had admitted much of it has been because of John. In response, she had cleverly reminded him of what happened during one of his and John's holiday trips early into their relationship. John had signed them up for a couples' massage which Sherlock had known he would hate for several reasons. He had forced himself to accept because he didn't want to disappoint his newly minted partner. It had ended with his head in a rubbish bin when the vertigo and synaesthesia from the touching and the pain and having his face down not being able to see what was going on had made him severely nauseous. At first, he'd lied to John that he had food poisoning but had eventually admitted that the experience had been abhorrent. John had been very apologetic, and he had made Sherlock promise he'd never agree to such things again if he knew he'd hate them.

_'If it's not fair to demand you to endure such physical discomfort for a partner and John would never want you to do so, why should you endure equally outrageous amounts of emotional pain for his sake when you go to Sussex? Why would that be more acceptable?' _The psychiatrist had asked Sherlock. That had helped him decide to stick to his guns about not allowing a repeat of last Christmas. If Violet Holmes behaves, they can see about the Christmas after this one. The next Holmes family gathering will, however, happen on a more neutral ground.

"Mycroft's housekeeper is a splendid cook," Sherlock explains. "We each get to pick our favourite dishes, and they will then be served as a buffet. Mycroft gets to bore everyone with his clarets, and we can do some sightseeing. I am even willing to put up with the Christmas market, but there will be no fondue."

Violet's features do a strange thing as she processes all this. "Mikey would be so delighted to have you and John visiting. We have been there, of course, at his newest home which is just lovely. Did you know the architect just designed a villa for the Danish royal family?"

Sherlock's shoulders nearly sag forward with relief. This won't be the first Christmas Violet and George have spent abroad, and it seems that a promise of both their sons' company in posh surroundings has done the trick. "It's settled, then? We'll all go?"

"Yes, dear, of course we can go. I'm just very surprised. I assume Mikey knows about this?"

"He's tried to invite us over for Christmas before, and I spoke to him about it last week. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already hired a professional party planner or something else over-the-top."

Violet beams. "We will have such fun!"

Sherlock takes a moment to try to process his own surprise. How much of their miscommunication has been due to him having given up even trying to talk to Violet years and years ago? He makes sure not to get his hopes up too high regarding how well she might learn to understand him — after all, the two of them are products of very different eras. Still, he has decided that he wants her in his life as long as it's on _his _terms rather than hers.

He stands up, glancing at his watch. There's a train back in an hour; perhaps Violet will give him a ride back. She rarely drives these days but has always had a licence and their car is in the driveway; George must have walked to the village to see his friend.

Sherlock feels exhausted; he wants to go home and have a hot bath.

Violet scrambles to her feet, too. "Won't you stay? I've just changed the sheets in your room. We could have breakfast in the village tomorrow."

"No, I–––" He hesitates. Saying no to her leads to fussing and passive-aggressive guilt being laden on him. She doesn't like it when things don't go her way. _Mummy knows best_. But, Mummy cannot keep him from walking out of the house. "No, mother. I hav–– I want to get home tonight. Spend some time with John."

"Alright, dear," Violet relents. "I will take you to the station. It was so good of you to visit," she coos, having switched back to her default theatrics.

Sherlock wonders how much of what they've discussed will be retained. _Time __will tell. _

He's not surprised when she moves in for a motherly hug. Before, he would have endured, afterwards wanting to rub his arms to get rid of the lingering after-sensation of too intense, unwanted physical contact. This time, he sidesteps and places his hand briefly on Violet's arm to stop her. "I don't like hugging. In fact, I detest it. I don't like people touching me — except for John; he knows to do it in a way that doesn't put me off."

Violet looks a little hurt and very apprehensive.

"I may have hugged people when I was little, because I was told to. I did a lot of things because I was told and because there were consequences if I failed, and those consequences were delivered by you. You have to decide, now, whether it's more important to expect those pointless things, or have a relationship with me. You had your way for thirty years. No more."

Violet sighs.

— The End —

**Author's Note:**

> Doctors Holmes and Watson will return.


End file.
